


Wake Me When It's Over

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Amnesia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3534614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The police have irrefutable evidence that Neal is a brutal murderer. The problem is, he cannot remember committing the crime, and he begins to doubt himself and who Neal Caffrey really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     Hearing was the first of Neal’s senses to return. Then his brain helped identify sounds that became traffic noises in the distance—the steady hum of car engines, the occasional beep of a horn. Slowly, he managed to open his eyes, lids heavy and listless, to awaken that sense. Things were blurry at first, the ambient light dim, but he thought he could make out a bit of movement. He felt the hard ground beneath him and knew he lay prone with his head turned to the side. However, it somehow seemed incongruous to be on eye level with a tiny, black ant, its segmented little body vibrating energy, and its hair-like legs taking purposeful, marching strides. But, yes, it was indeed a small ant, busy with its own task and quite indifferent to its observer. He watched in fascination as the little insect laboriously hoisted crumbs, one at a time, then made steady, determined progress out of his line of sight. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he remembered learning that these little creatures could carry up to fifty times their own body weight. Had he read that, or had Mozzie had told him that? It was all rather confusing right now.

     Then the bewildered man noticed his left arm outstretched just beyond him. His hand, with the fingers slightly curled, looked dirty and smeared with rust. Centering his attention on that hand, he moved the digits back and forth. The action caused cracks to form in the rust and flakes began to fall. Inanely, he thought that his clenched fist looked like a miniature iceberg, calving off frozen sheets of water that crashed into the sea. Now Neal wondered vaguely if perhaps he had fallen asleep watching the nature channel. Actually, sleep sounded alluring, and he gave in to the urge to return to blissful oblivion.

     Minutes, or it could have been hours later, semi-consciousness teased the edges of his mind once more. No more ants, no more icebergs—just a feeling of “not being quite here.” He wasn’t making any sense, not even to himself, so Neal tried to focus and take stock of his body. He could move his legs, if he concentrated. The angles of his knees became more acute as he bent them slowly. His left arm still remained outstretched, but try as he might, he could not feel his right arm. Thinking it was trapped beneath him, he reassured himself that it had merely gone numb from his weight. What became painfully clear, however, was the pounding in his head, so intense that it filled him with a sense of nausea. He closed his eyes and tried to pull in a deep lungful of air. It seemed fetid from the stench of rotted garbage. In the end, all that he accomplished was passing out once again.

     Then that trusty, hardworking sense of hearing returned once more like a harbinger of unpleasant things to come. Neal heard voices and firm, determined footsteps that advanced closer and closer. The next second, he felt fingers on the side of his neck that lingered for the briefest of moments.

     “Call EMS,” a male someone yelled excitedly, “this one’s still alive!”

     Slowly and carefully, he was turned onto his back by strong hands, and it was then that he heard the sudden intake of breath and whispered words.

     “Damn, will you look at this!”

     Suddenly, the hands were no longer gentle, and another voice had joined the first.

     “Well, this certainly makes our job a lot easier. This mutt is going down, and the harder the better, in my opinion!”

     The next coherent bit of consciousness found Neal awakening alone in a hospital bed with his wrist and ankle chained to the bedrails. Occasionally a stern, tight-lipped nurse would glide in on rubber-soled shoes to check his vital signs, but spoke as little as possible to him. Of course, he didn’t ask any questions because he actually had to formulate what questions to ask. The last thing that he remembered was talking to Peter about a case that required him to go undercover. Names and places refused to emerge right now, but he was sure that Peter would sort it all out when he came.

     However, later in the day, two NYPD detectives came into his room instead of Peter. They pulled up chairs beside his bed and stared at him with narrowed eyes filled with loathing. The first thing that they did was to recite his rights to him and inform him that he was being charged with murder!

     “Who?” Neal asked in confusion and dread.

     “You beat a young woman to death with a length of pipe, you piece of shit, and you know it,” alpha cop spat at him with relish. “So don’t go all wide-eyed like you’re just hearing this for the first time,” he continued. “What did Jennifer Simmons ever do to you, scumbag?”

     The name meant nothing to Neal, but apparently, she had been a real person, who was once alive, and now she was not, and they said that he was to blame. He had to talk to Peter!

     “What’s the matter, pretty boy? Did you come on to her, she said no, and that pissed you off? You needed to teach her a lesson?” The sneering detective then plunked down a glossy 8x10 photo of what had once been a human being. Neal paled as he gazed upon the gruesome picture showing a macerated and torn face—blood, splintered bone, and brain matter framing the head like a halo. Neal’s breath hitched in his suddenly dry throat.

     “Now, Phil, let’s just hear what he has to say for himself,” the second interrogator intervened smoothly as he turned his attention to Neal. “Maybe you and the young lady decided to party last night. You took a hit of a few drugs to spice things up, and maybe those psychedelics were a bit more than you could handle. That happens sometimes. I get it. Just tell us what went on between the two of you.”

     Apparently, “Phil’s” partner was now going to play good cop. He looked at Neal with a suddenly compassionate, inquiring gaze.

     Neal turned away and stared resolutely ahead. The words that he uttered were simple and precise, “I’m not talking to you. I’ll only talk to Peter Burke in the White Collar Division of the FBI.”

**********

     Peter stood on one side of the two-way glass that formed a window into the interrogation room at the NYPD’s 22nd precinct. He gazed worriedly at his CI, who was dressed in blue hospital scrubs and had both hands manacled and attached to a heavy iron ring in the center of a table. Peter surmised that his partner’s clothes had probably been kept as evidence. Neal sat erect and ominously still. He probably suspected that he was being observed, so Peter wondered if the conman was consciously controlling his breathing, as well as quelling any movement. He hardly evened blinked his eyes. It was eerie and disconcerting to watch, so unlike the Neal that he knew who usually was endowed with boundless kinetic energy.

     This would be the first time that the agent was allowed any contact with the man who had been under his supervision for almost three years. Neal had been discharged from the hospital today and brought directly here for questioning and detention. He was in the NYPD’s sandbox now, and they were not playing nice, being less than hospitable and forthcoming to the FBI. Peter had to go directly to the district attorney for information, the same man who was going to indict Neal for murder when the the Grand Jury was convened tomorrow. He needed to know exactly what the police suspected and why they suspected it before he demanded to see his CI.

     According to the prosecutor, it was a slam-dunk case. Neal Caffrey and Jennifer Simmons, a 32-year-old wife and mother, had been found in an alley behind a small Italian restaurant in Lower Manhattan by a homeless street person intending to dumpster-dive. When police arrived on the scene, they discovered that the victim had been bludgeoned repeatedly and maliciously with a length of metal pipe that was conveniently clenched in Caffrey’s right hand. The only things on that piece of pipe were the victim’s blood and Caffrey’s fingerprints. The woman’s blood was also smeared on Neal’s shirt and his hands.

     Since the suspected murderer had appeared to be semi-conscious when found, he was taken to a nearby hospital. Examination showed a small, but deep laceration on the back of his head. An MRI did not disclose a skull fracture, so the physician went with the diagnosis of concussion. A blood sample had revealed a smoking gun. There were traces of phencyclidine, better known on the streets as PCP or Angel Dust, circulating in Neal’s system. The coroner, however, had found no drugs in the woman’s toxicology screening.

     The police had no idea what had transpired before the murder, or how these two people knew one another. The woman’s husband couldn’t give them any explanation as to why his wife was in that alley, or how she came to be Caffrey’s victim. However, with all of the damning evidence, they really did not need a motive to prosecute and get a conviction.

     Peter, on the other hand, had a very good idea what Neal had been doing in the company of Jennifer Simmons. Earlier this afternoon, he had patiently laid out the details to the district attorney. It was the story of an undercover op that the White Collar division had in the works for months.

     Jennifer Simmons was married to Michael Simmons, an import/export dealer of textiles from numerous foreign countries. The business had been established many years before by the man’s father when he emigrated from Moscow in the 1950s. “Emigrated” was not precisely the correct term. The wily, enterprising man had simply managed to secretively slip away from the Communist country, make his way to relatives in Brighton Beach, and seek asylum. He never rued leaving Mother Russia. Back then, the family name had been Semyonov, but was quickly changed to Simmons in an attempt to blend into the American landscape. He eventually married, and his wife produced his son and heir.

     The father made a decent living, but his offspring wanted more—much, much more. This was the land of opportunity for those who were clever enough to exploit the laws and establish their own corrupt enterprises. After his father’s death ten years ago, Michael had begun building an empire. Rugs from Iran and silk from China weren’t enough to finance his dreams, so he began importing other unique things as well, in the form of human beings. Young girls, little more than children, were smuggled into the United States from Europe and Asia. They were then sold for a lucrative price to an underground, sordid market of perverted customers all over North America and Canada.

     This disgusting slave trade made Michael wealthy and kept his wife, Jennifer, in the style to which she had become accustomed. She was well aware of the origin of this extra income; she actually kept the books for her husband, and was quite adept at laundering funds and setting up offshore accounts.

     Everything was proceeding without a blip on the radar until Jennifer became pregnant. It was then that everything seemed to change, with Michael becoming distant and cold. He seemed to lose interest in Jennifer when her body expanded with the growing fetus, and she could never again re-capture his attention, even when her waistline returned to its pre-pregnant shape. The fissure in their marriage continued to widen. She suspected that he was having sex with the occasional passing fling, and was willing to turn a blind eye. However, to her dismay and eventual anger, she found out that there was one woman who had stolen her husband away. When she confronted him, he struck her for the first time, and, for the first time she was suddenly afraid.

     Then her fear solidified into something cold and treacherous. She would make him pay dearly. She brazenly contacted the FBI and hinted that she had knowledge of an underground slavery ring. Little by little, she plied them with tantalizing tidbits of information. However, she wanted a deal before she was willing to finally put all of her cards on the table. She demanded complete immunity and relocation to witness protection for herself and her infant daughter. In exchange, she would then provide evidence that could be used to arrest and prosecute her husband and the cadre of men who worked for him. She also promised to divulge the assortment of offshore accounts, as well as a list of the customers in her husband’s ledger.

     Peter listened intently to all of her assurances of things to come, and marveled at the cavalier attitude of someone who thought buying and selling children for sex was merely a business venture. There was a disdainful air of detachment about her; if she did not actually see these girls, then they were not real—just dollar signs in her account book that would pay for her country club membership. He also didn’t visualize her staying tucked away for very long in some little town that Wit Sec would provide. One day she would simply be gone, re-inventing herself after accessing funds from yet another offshore account that she conveniently forgot to mention. She had been planning her revenge for a while, giving her plenty of time to siphon off funds without her husband’s knowledge.

     Neal had met the woman and immediately disliked her. But with a conman’s expertise, he managed to mask his contempt in order to foster her cooperation. The FBI had patiently explained that a vindictive wife’s word against a straying husband was just supposition and unsubstantiated. He said/she said wouldn’t cut it. They needed hard evidence of a crime being committed. Jennifer reluctantly provided just enough information to enable Neal to make her husband’s acquaintance without sending up any flares. At a seemingly benign fundraising gala, the conman approached his mark and subtly hinted that he had heard of certain services that the “textile” importer provided. Neal then inferred that he represented an avenue of expansion that perhaps Simmons might want to explore.

     Neal had eventually gone undercover as an intermediary who promised to bring clients to the table from below the border in South America. The FBI made sure that they had a man in Caracas, Venezuela who would vouch for Neal’s alias of “Stephen Carter.” Neal had met with Simmons on three occasions, and the deal was almost in place. They had to catch the importer red-handed taking delivery of the girls because they had not been able to get anything on a wire. Being extremely cautious and understandably paranoid, Simmons made sure that Neal was thoroughly searched each time he visited, and his phone and watch were removed. Last night, Neal was supposed to firm up the details of the latest shipment.

     Now the great enigma was what had transpired in the last twelve hours, and why Jennifer Simmons had been at that meeting. Peter hoped that Neal could shed some light on this dire situation.

 


	2. Chapter 2

     Peter waited anxiously outside of the locked interrogation room until the arresting detectives on the case eventually joined him.

     “Has he requested an attorney?” Peter asked them.

     “Nah….. the only person he’s asked for is you, Agent Burke. He hasn’t said another word. Since he hasn’t lawyered up yet, you can still talk to him. We’ll be listening and recording, so hopefully you can get him to give a confession and we can wrap up this whole ugly mess in a tidy red bow.”

     Peter wasn’t about to make their job any easier, but he needed to know just what had happened and how Neal had wound up, front and center, in the NYPD’s cross-hairs.

     The door to the room was finally unlocked and he was allowed to enter. As you walked in, he noted that Neal immediately closed his eyes. Bizarrely, it reminded Peter of a child’s reaction. _If I just close my eyes, I can shut out all of the bad stuff and it won’t be real._ However, as he softly said Neal’s name, his CI immediately whipped his head around to stare at Peter.

     The look on Neal’s face was one of hopeful relief. However, that was quickly replaced by a fleeting expression of confusion overlaid with fear. Fear was never an emotion that Neal displayed. Hell, the slick, crafty conman probably didn’t even know the meaning of the word. When in a tight spot, his brain was usually too busy concocting ways to defuse danger, or assessing means of escape. There wasn’t time to worry about being afraid. Now he simply looked lost and anxious.

     Peter sat down slowly across from the man he had come to care about over their years together. “How are you, Neal?” he asked softly.

     “Peter, they say that I killed a woman!” Neal immediately blurted out, his face pale in the harsh fluorescent light.

     “We’ll get to that, Buddy,” Peter calmly responded. “Right now we need to sort through some things first so that the police, who are listening to us, can understand what happened.” Peter raised his eyebrows at his usually more astute friend and sincerely hoped that Neal realized that he was still being observed and needed to watch his words very carefully.

     “Now, I’m asking you again, how do you feel? I understand from the detectives that you sustained a wound to the back of your head.”

     Neal’s brow drew together as he thought this over. “I’m okay, Peter. The cops didn’t hurt me, or at least I don’t think that they did. I honestly don’t know how that happened.”

     “What exactly do you remember, Neal?”

     Again, that confused look came over Neal’s face. “That’s just it, Peter. I can’t remember anything until I woke up in a hospital being poked and prodded.”

     “Neal,” Peter began again. “You were undercover as ‘Stephen Carter.’ You were meeting with Michael Simmons to iron out the details of a sting we had in play. Do you remember that?”

     Neal looked stricken. “None of that sounds familiar, Peter. How was a woman with the same last name involved?”

     “She was Michael Simmons’ wife, and she was the one who was feeding us information about her husband’s criminal activities. I really don’t know why she was even there last night. Do you remember her at all?” Peter was probing cautiously; he certainly did not want Neal to incriminate himself if he truly had no memory of the events.

     Neal shook his head slowly. “Why do they think that I supposedly killed her if she was working for the FBI?”

     “Now that’s the big question, isn’t it,” Peter agreed. “What was the last thing that you do remember, Neal?”

     This took some time for Neal to work it out in his mind. “I remember being in your office and we were talking about something, but I can’t remember what it was,” he admitted. “I can’t recall any details about a sting involving someone named Simmons. Why can’t I remember, Peter?”

     “Well, you did sustain a head injury, and your blood sample showed traces of PCP.” Peter supplied his friend with at least a few answers.

     Neal’s eyes widened. “I was dosed with PCP?”

     “That seems to be the case. Now, since you can’t offer any insights, I would advise you to request a lawyer and not say another word starting right now.” Peter knew he was royally pissing off those two detectives who had theirs eyes glued to the video feed. But Neal was Peter’s responsibility, and he needed to protect him at all costs. In his gut, he knew that Neal would never have savagely attacked anyone, even while under the influence of a powerful psychotropic drug.

     “I’ll talk to June and get the name of an attorney for you,” he continued. “Remember—not another word until you have counsel. I’m going to be investigating this, Neal, and I’ll definitely be in touch.” Peter briefly allowed his warm hand to rest atop Neal’s which was cold and clammy. He hated to leave him here like this, so confused and alone, but he had a job to do and the sooner the better.

*********

     Neal was indicted the next day for second-degree murder. The district attorney had foregone charges of first-degree murder because he could not prove premeditation. Nonetheless, if Neal was convicted, the nature of the crime and his previous record would certainly be his undoing. Without doubt, he would be sent to prison for a very long time, maybe with no chance of parole. After the Grand Jury handed down its decision, it came as no surprise that Neal was denied bail. He was then sent to Rikers Island to await trial.

     Peter’s stomach roiled at the thought of Neal at that facility. In recent years, Rikers was an embarrassment to the city of New York, being subject to numerous investigations of systemic abuse and violations of prisoners’ constitutional rights. Unfortunately, few corrections officers were prosecuted or even removed from their positions. Peter would make it a priority to visit frequently to reassure himself that Neal remained healthy and in one piece.

     In the meantime, Peter, Diana and Jones carried out their own investigation. The FBI stayed on Michael Simmons without let-up. He couldn’t even blow his nose without them knowing about it and snagging the used tissue for DNA. Peter hoped that eventually they could get something on the man that would implicate him in the murder. However, right now, he was playing the bereaved widower with a motherless child to the hilt. They were monitoring his bank accounts for a sudden influx of cash, but apparently he had not so much as touched any of those offshore accounts. He stuck to his legitimate textile import/export business. Peter would continue to bide his time, like a patient spider in a web awaiting its prey.

     As part of his investigation of seeking the truth, Peter had Neal sign a waiver so that the agent could interview the physician who had treated Neal during his brief stint in the hospital and peruse his records. Eventually he was referred to the neurologist who had been consulted by the ER resident.

     Dr. Mandel explained that the symptoms Neal had experienced were an indication of a grade 3 concussion, termed a ‘traumatic brain injury’ by the medical profession. This was based on the facts that he had sustained a prolonged period of unconsciousness and exhibited amnesia. Further confirmation of the diagnosis was based on the symptomology that Peter saw listed on Neal’s hospital record:

  * Confusion and feeling dazed

  * clumsiness

  * nausea

  * headache

  * balance problems and dizziness

  * blurred vision

  * sensitivity to light

  * sensitivity to noise

  * sluggishness

  * concentration difficulties

  * memory loss

     Next, the tenacious agent probed the manifestations of PCP exposure. In its pure form, PCP is a white crystalline powder that readily dissolves in water or alcohol. When taken, it could also be the culprit behind any of the bullet points in the above list.

     According to Peter’s research, a moderate amount of PCP often causes users to feel detached, distant, and estranged from their surroundings. Numbness of the extremities, slurred speech, and loss of coordination may be accompanied by a sense of strength and invulnerability. Hallucinations, image distortion, severe mood disorders, and amnesia may also occur. In some users, PCP may cause acute anxiety and a feeling of impending doom; in others, paranoia and violent hostility, and in some, it may produce a psychoses indistinguishable from schizophrenia. Many believe PCP to be one of the most dangerous drugs of abuse.

     All of the medical experts refused to venture a guess as to whether Neal would ever regain any memories of that fateful night. Peter had hit a wall.

     June had hired the best criminal lawyer that her money could buy. Richard Whitcomb was renowned in his field, and Peter spoke with him regularly at his law office as well as when he met with his client in prison. Neal had insisted that Peter be informed and present even though the lawyer/client privilege would not apply to the FBI agent. This, more than anything, solidified Peter’s certainty that Neal was innocent of the terrible crime. Apparently, Neal had complete trust in Peter, and it was a humbling feeling for the older man.

     Peter and Whitcomb were Neal’s only visitors over the many weeks that followed. The despondent young man had refused to see everyone else including June, Mozzie and Elizabeth. It was obvious that he had become deeply depressed, and Peter worried about the sallow complexion and the marked weight loss. Thankfully, he never presented himself with any bruises or abrasions, so the agent could only hope that the melancholy stemmed from emotional upheaval rather than physical threats or abuse.

     Time dragged on with no break in the case. At one of Peter and Whitcomb’s meetings in the lawyer’s office, the attorney floated the idea of changing Neal’s plea of “not guilty” to a plea of “manslaughter.” His sentence would be considerably less. After all, he explained, it was documented that Neal had been under the influence of a psychosis-inducing drug during the time of the murder. Whitcomb could assert that he had not been of sound mind psychologically, and therefore, not guilty of intentionally causing the death of the woman. Even after all this time, Neal could still not remember a thing about the night in question.

     Peter was appalled at the notion and doubted that Neal would ever agree to this.

     “Richard,” Peter argued vehemently, “Neal did not intentionally take that drug. Someone dosed him to incapacitate him for a reason—most likely to set him up for a murder that he did not commit. My money’s on the husband!”

     “Peter,” Whitcomb held up his hands in a calming gesture, “I agree with you there. The drug was administered without his knowledge, but we cannot prove that. Let me play devil’s advocate here, and tell you exactly what the prosecuting attorney will do. He will claim that Neal took the PCP voluntarily to get high, and then he will trot out expert after expert to testify about the documented fatal crimes committed by people under the influence. Just Google that sometime. It’s a cornucopia of disgusting, gruesome death statistics that even include cannibalism.”

     “Richard, I know Neal. He’s never taken drugs—ever, and he’s the least violent person you’ll ever meet, and I’ll swear to that in court!”

     “Peter,” Whitcomb argued, “I’ll take your word for that. However, if I put you on the stand as a character witness, you would be under oath and would have to reveal every negative thing in Neal’s past criminal life under cross-examination by the prosecution. The district attorney will have a field day painting him as a sociopath. Juries might be seduced into picturing him crossing the threshold and becoming a full-blown murderous psychopath. You would also have to testify that Neal knew Jennifer Simmons and did not like her, which they could construe as the inkling of a motive. I can only see that doing more harm than good at this juncture.”

     Peter was not to be deterred. “Alright, then let’s talk about Neal’s head wound. Just how did that happen? He most certainly didn’t do that to himself,” he declared with a shake of his own head.

     “Let me shut that down quite easily for you,” Whitcomb answered. “Small amounts of tissue and blood belonging to Neal were recovered from the sharp corner of the metal dumpster. It could be argued that while wildly swinging that pipe in a blind rage, he lost his balance and fell back against that dumpster. It, combined with the PCP, was enough to cause unconsciousness. Ergo, nobody did it to him; he did it to himself.”

     Peter changed tactics. “Okay, let’s go with hard facts then. The only prints on that murder weapon were Neal’s. How can a discarded piece of pipe not contain other prints as well? Somebody else would have touched it at some point, even if it was the person who threw it out initially near that dumpster. Wouldn’t that send up a red flag that it had been wiped clean before it was then placed in Neal’s hand?”

     Whitcomb responded, “The prosecution could explain that away by saying that a plumber had thrown it out after a repair, but while doing his repair work he had worn gloves. It is not an uncommon practice for workmen to do that to protect their hands from metal filings and rust.”

     Peter countered with still another argument. “Well, what about putting our FBI forensics expert on the stand. He claimed, in his professional opinion, that the blunt force trauma from the pipe blows should have caused Neal’s shirt to have dots of blood in a castoff, spatter pattern. Instead, there were extended smears like someone had intentionally wiped it there.”

     Whitcomb sighed wearily. “Peter, I know this is frustrating for you as well as for Neal. But, the sad fact is, we have no other defense unless my client can remember something to give us some promising avenue to explore.”

     Peter was now willing to try anything to save his partner. “What about hypnosis, Richard? What if Neal could remember something under hypnosis? I know that it wouldn’t be admissible as hard evidence, but if he remembered even the slightest thing, it may give me and my team something to work with in our investigation.”

     Whitcomb was thoughtful for a few minutes. He certainly sympathized with Peter’s need to do something helpful.

     “First, we would have to ask Neal if he would agree to try that extreme measure,” he finally responded. “We would have to make the prosecutor aware of what we were attempting, and then he would be privy to any results of that endeavor. Neal just may end up implicating and condemning himself. So, in my professional opinion, I am against that idea.”

     Peter was just as adamant. “Well, I think we should ask Neal what he thinks of the idea before you shoot it down!”

     While they agreed to disagree on the subject, the ultimate decision would be Neal’s. Together, Peter and Whitcomb visited him the next day. Neal looked even more haggard than he had a few days before. There was a lassitude about him, almost as if he had already given up hope and was simply ready to accept that he was guilty. Peter tried to inject a positive note in his voice when he broached the subject of hypnosis. Neal just stared at him blankly without responding.

     “Neal, for God’s sake, wake up and say something,” Peter finally exploded!

     That definitely shook Neal from his funk. “Peter, what if I can’t be hypnotized?” he finally asked.

     “Well, then we’re no better off than we were before,” Peter rationalized. “But maybe something that you remember will help us nail Michael Simmons. I know in my gut that he is the one who is behind this. It’s time to pull out all the stops, Buddy—time for extreme Hail Mary plays.”

     Of course, Richard Whitcomb was the voice of doom and gloom. “There’s a flip side to this coin, Neal. You may remember something that will actually convict you.”

     Neal looked steadily at the two men who only had his best interests at heart. “If I do remember that I actually killed someone in that manner, then I need to be put down like a rabid dog, even if I have to do it myself.”

     Once outside of the prison, Neal’s attorney and his best friend both agreed that when Neal started hypnosis therapy, he should be placed on a suicide watch at the prison.




 


	3. Chapter 3

     After the meeting with his lawyer and Peter, Neal returned to his cell and was thoughtful. It seemed like that’s all he did these days—think and think and think some more. Not that it did him any good. Memories continued to be just out of his reach. Sometimes he felt like he just wanted someone to crack open his skull, reach in with a scalpel, and scrape out those bits of information that were so elusive. The lack of answers and the tedium of inactivity were wearing him down. He was so tired and he knew he was sliding deeper into depression.

     His days in Rikers were uneventful. To his surprise and relief, the other prisoners steered clear of him. It seemed that his violent reputation had circulated among the inmate population. Nobody wanted to risk the chance of setting off a psychotic killer. What if that was exactly what he was? He had to know! Was he capable of killing another human being in a manner that was so startlingly brutal? Had some deep-seated rage been allowed to spew forth after being given an exit pass by the PCP? Did he have that satanic evilness within himself? So many questions and absolutely no answers!

     Peter’s faith in him was gratifying, but it also made Neal feel guilty for putting him through this ordeal. He certainly did not deserve all of the grief that he had experienced while supervising Neal over the years. The young man toyed with the idea of refusing to see Peter when he visited, just as he had all the other people that he loved. However, try as he might, he just could not cut the final tie with the one person who meant the most to him. He felt cowardly because he needed Peter’s steadiness and support. If not for Peter, he just might contemplate how to end his own life and be done with it.

     Neal slept a lot when he wasn’t studying the fine web of cracks in the cement ceiling above his head. His dreams were usually distorted and creepy. There would be a flash of a face that was indistinct, the arcing of a raised, disjointed arm, and sometimes even a parade of inexplicable insects. The incarcerated man considered that he might be going crazy, so why not indulge in one last act of insanity. That is how he thought of this hypnosis venture—insane and doomed to fail. But he had to do it because Peter wanted him to try. If he was honest, the whole issue scared the hell out of him. He would be subjected to the whims of a stranger and he would have no control. Maybe he could make a stipulation that Peter had to be present when it all went down. Peter was the only one he trusted, and if he heard the worst, well, then he could finally walk away from Neal and get on with his own life.

**********

     Of course, Peter agreed to stay with Neal during his sessions with the psychiatrist who intended to probe Neal’s mind. His attorney would be there as well. Neal joked that the journey through his memories might be like taking an amusement park stroll through the “House of Horrors.”

     “I should have a sign on my forehead,” he joked lamely. “ _Danger! Enter at your own risk_.” His comment made Peter frown and his lawyer grimace. What?—had they never heard of gallows humor?

     Dr. Chalker, a psychiatrist, was middle-aged with a slight paunch and thick glasses. He spoke softly and asked Neal to fill out a medical history and sign numerous release forms. They were meeting in the doctor’s office in Midtown with two burly prison guards standing sentry outside the door. Dr. Chalker insisted that Neal’s leg irons and wrist manacles be removed. He could not commence with therapy if his patient felt confined, he had told the guards. The physician assured them that he was comfortable with the patient and felt in no danger, and the door was only steps away if he felt threatened in any way and needed assistance. They grumbled, but eventually complied, and Neal was impressed with how the physician’s softly spoken resolve got results. This guy would have made a great conman under the proper circumstances. In his mind, Neal dubbed him “Rasputin.”

     The therapist also warmly received Whitcomb and Peter into the inner sanctum of his office without batting an eye. Neal wondered if anything would really bother this apparently unflappable man. While Neal made himself comfortable on a slightly reclined armchair, Peter and Whitcomb sat nervously on an adjacent sofa. Soft, lulling music played quietly in the background. “Rasputin” instructed Neal to close his eyes and then led him through a series of relaxation techniques and guided imagery. After an indeterminate time had elapsed, he instructed Neal to open his eyes. The young man was confused; he didn’t think that he had lost any time. “Did you just hypnotize me, Doctor?” he asked.

     “No, Neal, all we did today was some exercises so that you will become comfortable with my processes. Please rest assured that you were always in control, but hopefully a little bit more relaxed than when you first came in. We’ll do this for awhile until you are ready to let go, and then we will try to take our journey back in time.”

     Neal was surprised that he felt a bit disappointed. He was like a kid who wanted instant gratification. Just let the genie out of the bottle already! He gave Peter a rueful look, and the agent smiled in commiseration as if he knew exactly what Neal was thinking. Regardless of the questionable therapy, Neal relished the few minutes that he was able to sit beside Peter in the office while they awaited Dr. Chalker’s arrival before each session. He was greedy for this small feeling of contentment that was all too brief. Peter only missed one afternoon because he was testifying in court on another White Collar case, and, to Neal’s dismay and embarrassment, he sent Diana in his place.

     This was the first time that they had seen each other in months, and Diana tried not to let the shock show on her face. Neal was actually so gaunt that he looked brittle. He lacked his normal charisma and he had an air of hopelessness about him. It all seemed so wrong.

     Her former co-worker tried gallantly to collect himself and asked tensely, “Aren’t you afraid to be alone with a deranged psychotic killer, Diana? I might try to tear you limb from limb at any minute.”

    “Caffrey,” she responded snidely, but with a smile, “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just a bag of bones right now that I could take down with one hand and not break a sweat.”

     After that exchange, Neal relaxed. At least things between them were familiar and typical, and he was glad that she was there in Peter’s stead. Sometimes his lawyer would be absent from the sessions, too, because he had business elsewhere, and Neal never minded. After all, Neal was not his only client. It was Peter who was important—always Peter, who was his lifeline to what had once been normal.

     Neal and his two-man entourage saw Dr. Chalker three times a week for three consecutive weeks. To Neal, it seemed an endless progression of the same relaxation exercises. Neal was getting frustrated at the lack of progress, and asked “Rasputin” if perhaps he just could not be hypnotized.

     “I’m sure that you have run into people from time to time who are resistant to your therapy, Doctor, and you find that you are wasting your time.”

     The mild-mannered man just smiled and said that he had given the issue some thought and had a suggestion that Neal should consider. There were certain pharmacological agents that could be used as an adjunct to therapy.

     “You mean like truth serum?” Neal asked anxiously.

     “Neal,” the gentle man responded, “There are no real truth serums. Those drugs are the stuff of urban legend, and their veracity is undocumented. The medications that I would administer are simply designed to help you achieve a greater degree of relaxation that just may facilitate the retrieval of deeply buried memories. Give it some thought. Talk it over with your lawyer and your friend. You don’t have to make any decisions right now.”

     Richard Whitcomb initially advised Neal against it, but at Neal’s hopeful face, he capitulated.

     “I suppose we might as well open up this can of worms. We have tried everything else. The trial is next week and we have nothing to add to our defense. I know you want answers, Neal, but you may be opening up a Pandora’s Box and not like what pops out.”

     “What do you think, Peter?” Neal waited until he was alone with his friend to discuss the issue.

     Peter scanned Neal’s open face and sighed. “Neal, I have known you for over a decade. I have studied you like a bug under a microscope and know every little detail. It was literally my vocation for the three years that I was pursuing you all over the globe. Never, ever would I accept that you are capable of brutally murdering someone. Even if you doubt yourself, my faith has never wavered. If you want to try this last ditch effort, I will be right there by your side. I know that nothing that you might say will shock me or make me think less of you. It just won’t happen, Buddy.”

     Neal had to look away because he was coming apart at the seams, his emotions getting the better of him. Suddenly, Peter’s arm was around him and the dam broke open. When he managed to regain his composure, he pleaded, “Please, please, Peter, don’t ever speak of this to anyone. It’s mortifying!”

     “My lips are sealed,” the agent murmured with a sad little smile.

**********

     At the next session, Dr. Chalker administered an intramuscular injection and let Neal relax for thirty minutes before beginning the now familiar exercise of having Neal visualize himself walking through a wooded glen. The farther down the path Neal went, the farther back in time he regressed. As was their custom, he took Neal slowly through the soft shadows until he emerged into a warm, sunlit meadow. There was a gentle breeze that flowed across his skin, and birds were chirping happily in the distance. This was their usual destination on these mind journeys. He invited Neal to sit and rest on the grass in the field, and feel safe and content.

     “Remember, Neal, this is just a little time for us to talk. There are no wrong things to say. We will discuss whatever comes to your mind, whatever you want to recall. If at anytime you start to feel afraid, or you do not feel safe in that world, you can return right here to the chair in my office. Your friend, Peter, will be waiting for you. You are in control, Neal, always in control. Do you understand?”

     Peter watched Neal’s face and was gratified to see the lack of tension. He was breathing slowly and deeply and actually looked peaceful. “I understand,” was said clearly and without anxiety. Peter wasn’t really surprised at Neal’s response to the drug. His one time being dosed with a tranquilizer at the Howser Clinic had made him loopy and docile. Drugs hit him like a ton of bricks and made him vulnerable. It was no wonder that Neal avoided them like the plague.

     The psychiatrist intended to regress Neal back to a time in his childhood. Those years were usually a good place to start because most children felt protected and cherished. It was supposed to be a time of well-being, so lingering there for a time would bolster feelings of security at the beginning of the session.

     It was like looking through a keyhole into a long ago past, as in a calm, disembodied voice, Neal re-lived those years. He described a vacant mother incapable of caring for a growing child. He told of stealing cans of tuna from the corner grocery so that they could eat, and hustling pool for cash to pay the bill collectors. He remembered being lonely and afraid and dreaming of a better future.

     “Okay, Neal,” the doctor quickly intervened. “Let’s leave that time and move on. I want you to sift through your memories and tell me about a time when you did feel safe.”

     It took some minutes before Neal responded. “I felt safe when I was locked in my prison cell at night at Sing Sing. It was a safe place to be because nobody could get in and I could sleep and not worry.”

     Peter felt like he had been punched in the gut. This was heart wrenching. The FBI agent had boasted that he knew everything about Neal, and yet he knew literally nothing about a precarious childhood that did not consist of birthday parties and trips to the zoo. Neal’s early life had been a hardscrabble existence of trying to survive, and his later life evolved into a tightrope walk without a net. Only feeling safe in a prison cell was beyond Peter’s comprehension.

     Even Whitcomb, a hard-nosed attorney who had seen it all, felt sadness and stared down at his folded hands. The psychiatrist pushed on, however, now that he had maneuvered Neal into adulthood and closer to where they needed to be.

     “Alright, Neal, you are an adult now. You are working on a case for the FBI. Let us visit the night of November 15th of last year. Tell me where you are and what is happening around you.”

     The young man’s body, which had been loose and relaxed, suddenly tensed. His hands sought the armrests of the chair and tightened to the point that his knuckles turned white. His head thrashed from side to side and his breathing sped up.

     “That’s a wrap! That’s a wrap!” he kept repeating in his agitated state. It was obvious that his panic was escalating and he was trying to get up out of the chair.

     The doctor broke in quickly and persistently. “You’re safe, Neal! You are safe! You can return to my office now. Come back to my office, Neal. Can you feel the cushions of the chair against your back? Listen to the music in the background. Listen to my voice, Neal. You are safe here, and you can rest,” the psychiatrist crooned over and over until his patient finally settled once again.

     When he felt that the crisis was over, the perplexed doctor looked to Whitcomb and Peter. The lawyer appeared just as confused as the physician did, but Peter looked shell-shocked. When he could speak, it was in a guilt-ridden tone filled with misery.

     “That was the phrase he was supposed to use if he was in trouble. That was the panic phrase, a distress call for help. He was calling for help ……… and we didn’t come because we couldn’t hear him!”


	4. Chapter 4

     Peter returned to his home in Brooklyn with a troubled heart. Before he left the psychiatrist’s office, he had a sobering discussion with Neal after Dr. Chalker had awakened him from the session. He never mentioned the disconcerting childhood memories or the confession about prison. He simply told Neal that he had been unable to recall what had happened the night of the murder even while under hypnosis. The young man was crestfallen, but tried valiantly to hide it.

     “Well, we always knew that this was a long shot,” was all that Neal said.

     Peter parked his car on the street, but was startled as he reached the front steps of his house. A lone figure was seated there in the dim light of the porch lantern. Mozzie, with his elbows propped on his bent knees, looked up at Peter as he drew nearer.

     “Suit,” was the little man’s only greeting.

     “Mozzie, what the hell? Why are you perched on my front steps like a garden gnome?” Peter was really not surprised at the nocturnal visit. Neal’s steadfast companion had been in constant contact with Peter from the beginning. Since Neal had been refusing to see him, Mozzie continually and methodically pumped Peter for information.

     “Mrs. Suit isn’t home at the moment, and I thought that you would be pissed off if I picked my way into your abode,” Mozzie responded calmly.

     “Well, come inside before I have to arrest you for loitering,” Peter quipped while unlocking the door.

     It was disconcerting when Mozzie didn’t rise to the bait. Peter pulled a beer from his refrigerator and put the kettle on to heat water for the ginseng herbal tea that his wife kept for Mozzie.

     “I take it from your demeanor that it didn’t go well,” his guest stared at him through his thick lenses. “He’s going down for this, isn’t he?”

     “I don’t see any other outcome,” Peter answered truthfully.

     When there was no response, he continued softly, “You’ve been with Neal for a lot longer than I have, Mozzie. Have you ever known him to give up hope—I mean figuratively throw in the towel?”

     His visitor’s head shot up quickly. “Why would you ask me that? What aren’t you telling me?” The paranoid little man was reading between the lines and did not like the feeling that he was getting from Peter’s question.

     The FBI agent tried to put his nebulous thoughts into words. “I think the absence of a memory of what happened that night is making him begin to doubt himself. Neal Caffrey is all about confidence, and that has all been stripped away by the amnesia. I think that maybe, deep down, he is beginning to believe that he may have killed that woman. After all, the district attorney and the NYPD have been chanting that battle cry for so long that maybe he’s begun to stop trusting in his own innocence.”

     Mozzie was incensed. “As a dyed-in-the wool conspiracy theorist, I certainly believe that the government is fully capable and more than eager to perpetrate brainwashing. But Neal would never let that happen to himself. He’s too smart, too strong and he’s too resilient,” Mozzie said adamantly.

     “Mozzie, you haven’t seen him in months. He is not the same person that you remember. His lawyer and I actually have him on a suicide watch at the prison because we’re afraid of what he may do.” Peter said gently.

     “No! No, he’s playing you, Suit, and he is playing that shyster lawyer of his as well. It’s an act! Neal Caffrey doesn’t give up!” Mozzie’s voice had risen, and so had he as he hurried towards the front door.

     “You’re wrong, Suit! So wrong!” The door slammed behind him.

**********

     Neal’s trial commenced two weeks later at the Federal Courthouse after the tedious process of jury selection was completed. On that morning, two NYPD officers arrived at Rikers Island to transport the prisoner. This wasn’t the usual procedure. Normally, the Department of Corrections was responsible for ferrying prisoners across from the Island, which was located between Queens and the Bronx. They were then taken by car to One Federal Plaza. However, an intentional work slowdown was in progress by the employees at the prison, who were furious over the disciplining and firing of two of their co-workers for an alleged beat-down of one of the inmates. The remaining guards, in mass, were calling out “sick” in protest.

     Still attired in his orange jump suit, Neal’s hands were manacled to a chain at his waist. Leg irons connected to another length of chain allowed him to shuffle along at a slow pace. He would be changing into one of Byron Ellington’s suits when he arrived at court shortly before the trial was to begin. His NYPD escorts grumbled incessantly about doing scut work because some state employees had gotten their noses out of joint. Once they were in Manhattan, Neal just settled himself, as comfortably as he could, in the back seat of a squad car. There was a thick partition of bulletproof glass that separated him from his chauffeurs, but he could hear every word that they said.

     The journey was long, and Neal was tense now that a jury was empaneled and the trial was about to start. The backlog of traffic in the city just ratcheted up his anxiety. It was stop and go, with incessant, long idling times. Suddenly, while they were on Lafayette Street near the courthouse, there was the startling sound of staccato pops in rapid succession. Pedestrians started descending to the ground. New Yorkers knew the drill; if you heard shots, you hit the dirt and stayed there until the all clear was sounded. Static over the police radio was replaced by those frightening words that every cop dreaded to hear: “Officer down! Officer down! Needs assistance!” The location was just around the corner, and Neal’s escorts quickly looked at each other and then back at him.

     “He’s secured good and tight back there, and we’ll lock the car doors. We gotta go!” The unknown danger up ahead, and the distress of one of their own brothers in blue had both cops in agreement. Their adrenalin was running at full tilt. Drawing their weapons, they quickly exited the vehicle and were off and running, after automatically securing the locks in place.

     Thus, that is how Neal unexpectedly found himself left alone in the back of an abandoned squad car on a congested New York thoroughfare. Suddenly, movement in his peripheral vision caused him to look to his right. Looming just outside of the car’s window was an apparition dressed all in black. A Hassidic Jew, not an unusual sight in Manhattan, stared back at him. The man wore a large-brimmed black hat, had a thick dark beard, and curled locks of hair along the sides of his head. Without warning, he reached inside of his long, knee-length frock coat and drew out a menacing-looking, heavy sledgehammer that he immediately hefted above his shoulder.

     Neal instinctively threw himself to the far side of the back seat and tucked his head as blows from the tool rained down time and time again against the glass. Visions of a long ago movie flashed through his mind. “ _Here’s Johnny_!” Those were the words that Jack Nicholson had manically chanted as he used an ax to splinter a wooden door in that damn scary adaptation of a Stephen King novel called “The Shining.” If this current psycho got to Neal, he was probably planning to pound the conman’s head next.

     However, shouted words finally reached the trapped prisoner’s ears. “Kick out the glass, Neal. C’mon, pick up the slack, kid!”

     Neal recognized the voice just beyond, and knew that Mozzie resided somewhere in that get-up. When the conman hesitantly turned, he noted that the side window of the car was now a mosaic pattern of minute, intricate spider webbing. Being safety glass, it had not shattered and remained in one piece, listlessly tilted towards the interior of the car. The conman hurriedly squirmed onto his back, drew up his knees, and used both feet to pummel the pliant sheet of glass out and away from him. Then, with Mozzie’s help, he eeled his way through the opening onto the street where he found a nondescript-looking sedan with the back door open. His rescuer quickly shoved him inside and covered him with a blanket. Then Mozzie jumped into the driver’s seat, cut across traffic, and peeled his way up the ramp of a parking garage that just so happened to be conveniently located on the block.

     With hasty resolve, Mozzie piloted the car to the fifth floor of the parking facility. He had diligently worked his technological magic earlier in the morning so that the garage’s security cameras were on a loop. He pulled Neal from the back seat once they had stopped at a white paneled truck marked with a plumber’s logo. After Neal was hurriedly hidden from view in the back, Mozzie shed his ethnic duds to reveal denim coveralls and a plaid flannel shirt. He plunked a hard hat on his head and they were again on the move. Neal’s mind was spinning and he inanely thought of the Claymation character, “ _Bob the Builder,_ ” a children’s favorite on television. He stifled a hysterical laugh. Maybe he had finally gone over the edge and this was all an illusion that his mind had conjured up while he was still in his jail cell.

     “What’s going on, Moz,” he asked when he finally got his wits about him.

     “What do you think is happening, mon frère? I’m staging an intervention!”

     With that declaration, Mozzie tossed a lock pick set backwards into Neal’s vicinity.

     “Do you think that you can remember how to use those, Neal, or have your skills gotten rusty since you have been slaving for ‘The Man? If you get yourself unfettered, there are clothes back there that you can change into. Most definitely not your usual chic taste, but just suck it up, Buddy, ‘cause beggars can’t be choosers!”

     Neal did not need any further urging, and the chains and manacles fell away with a clank. He swapped out the eye-catching orange for well-worn jeans, sturdy work boots and a flannel shirt much like what Mozzie now sported. A navy pea coat, a baseball cap and aviator sunglasses also lay across a bulging duffle bag.

     When they were safely tooling along Interstate 95 away from Manhattan, Neal dared to ask apprehensively, “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your intentions, Moz, but please, just tell me what happened back there. Were those gunshots that I heard? Did a cop get shot?”

     Mozzie sighed, “Calm down, Neal. Nobody got hurt. Those were just firecrackers that went off, and that distress call was prerecorded and remotely patched into the police communications scanner at the proper time. I was relying on the premise that your escorts would not be able to ignore it and would abandon their posts. It also provided enough confusion and panic that our little getaway went off without a hitch. It will take those dunderheads at headquarters a while to get their act together and commandeer security camera videos from the street. They will see us enter the garage, but they will not know which vehicle we used for our exit. Besides, we are not keeping this van for long.

     I have to say, this was one of my more intricate plans and I am quite proud. So, you see, no casualties, no collateral damage, except for two of New York’s finest whose pensions may now be in jeopardy for their lack of dedication to their primary duty!”

     As Mozzie had promised, they did not stay on the Interstate for very long. Fairly soon, he took the exit that brought them to the long-term parking section of Newark Airport in nearby New Jersey. This part of the parking area lacked cameras, a fact that Neal’s cautiously meticulous sidekick knew in advance. He parked the van and finally turned to give his friend his full attention.

     “Neal, here are the keys to that silver Chevy Blazer over there. It has Virginia plates on it and over 200,000 miles, with lots of dings and rust. Chevrolet stopped making that sports utility vehicle back in 2004, so it will probably not be high on the cops’ radar as the kind of getaway vehicle that Neal Caffrey would likely use. In that duffle bag are extra clothes and $10,000 in cash in numerous small denominations. You will also find all the necessary ID—driver’s license, passport, car registration and insurance information that identifies you as ‘ _Jack Montgomery_ ,’ age 34, from Fairfax, Virginia.

     A paper in your wallet has a social security number written on it. Memorize it and burn the paper. There is a valid credit card and a few generic coupons for $5 off at Pizza Hut. Do not use the credit card; it’s just there for appearances. Pay with cash always. Your ID will stand up to scrutiny because a Jack Montgomery really does exist and lives in Fairfax, but we certainly do not need to alert him that he is a victim of identity theft by racking up charges on his monthly Visa statement. Let’s just keep it our little secret that we have appropriated his identity for a good cause.

     There is also a burner phone with me programmed as #1 on speed dial. My advice to you is to get off the expressway and travel back roads going south. There are various state maps in the glove box. Take your time, and when you feel safe, call me and we’ll figure it out from there. Do not contact the ‘Suit’ under any circumstances! Regardless of what you think your relationship is with him, he is still a cop, Neal. When all is said and done, I am the only one with the balls to protect you.”

     After that pedantic lecture, Mozzie turned and looked the fugitive in the eye. “You are my best friend, Neal, and don’t you ever forget that!”

     Neal dropped in head in shame. He had closed the door in Mozzie’s face when he went to prison, and now that same loyal friend was risking his own neck to rescue him.

     “I’m so sorry, Moz,” was all he could mange softly.

     Mozzie’s eyes were suspiciously moist as he gruffly urged, “Get a move on, Neal. Time is precious right now. I am intentionally leaving this vehicle here just in case the cops have an epiphany and decide to check the airports. That would be their first thought since that is how you have made your escapes out of the country in the past. We will leave them a red herring. Stay on the East Coast, mon frère, practically in their back yard. They will never suspect that you will have the audacity to hide in plain sight.

     Now, off you go. I need to get back to New York to establish my alibi. June is waiting for me with a glass of wine and a Parcheesi board. I have a feeling the ‘Suit’ will be paying us a visit quite soon.”

     So, that was their hurried farewell in a quiet parking lot in New Jersey. Neal climbed into the Chevy, and Mozzie accessed yet another vehicle that had been pre-parked in that lot. Neal left first, heading south. Mozzie stayed for a short while. He wanted to make sure that his friend had no second thoughts. Finally, twenty minutes later, a white Toyota Prius ambled, just under the speed limit, back towards Manhattan. The driver, decked out in a safari jacket, a floppy “Crocodile Dundee” hat, and tortoise-shell glasses, exuberantly sang show tunes from “ _Fiddler on the Roof_.”

         

    


	5. Chapter 5

      Peter and Richard Whitcomb were waiting at the courthouse for Neal’s arrival and the onset of the trial. The District Attorney sat across from the defendant’s table leisurely reading through his notes as if he had not a care in the world. No doubt, he felt that he was sitting in the catbird’s seat for this case, and the verdict was a foregone conclusion requiring little effort on his part. The appointed hour of 10:00 AM came and went with no sign of Neal and his escorts. At 10:30 AM, both lawyers were called into the judge’s chambers, and fifteen minutes later, an agitated DA emerged followed by a solemn defense attorney.

     The would-be prosecutor favored Peter with a scowl and said with a sneer, “If your golden boy was so innocent, Agent Burke, then why did he run? I don’t need an answer because I already know what it is. Caffrey was not the person he was pretending to be for your benefit. Just accept it; the formidable FBI was duped by one of its very own!”

     Before Peter could come up with any answer, Whitcomb took his arm and steered him into a small alcove off the main room. It was then that he told Peter about a disturbance just a few blocks away earlier this morning. Apparently, shots had been fired on the street, Neal had escaped, and he was now at large in the city. Peter’s stomach fluttered with fear. Had the cops shot Neal during an asinine attempt by the conman to outrun them? Whitcomb did not have all the details, so Peter hurried to the nearby FBI building where his team pinned down the specifics. All of this fact-finding took quite a while since the NYPD had egg smeared all over their face and was not too eager to share the embarrassing tidbits.

     Peter leaned back in the chair behind his desk and blew out an exasperated breath. Both Jones and Diana were present and looked at him with concern. It was Diana who was finally brave enough to venture an opinion.

     “You’ll track him down, Boss. You always do, and you are probably the only one who can,” she stated softly.

     “ _But do I really want to?_ ” Peter almost said that thought out loud.

     Right now, Neal was an escaped prisoner from the NYPD’s custody. They were, by default, responsible for his apprehension. As yet, they had not asked the FBI for assistance, and Peter was not eager to offer it. Furthermore, Peter knew that Neal ran simply because the possibility had presented itself and he had taken advantage of it. It was not because he was guilty; it was because he was innocent but couldn’t prove that he was. Peter wondered idly if he would find Neal lurking in his kitchen when he arrived home. After the infamous pink diamond caper, he had turned to Peter for help. Somehow, Peter doubted that it would play out like that again. He had failed Neal this time, and although the conman didn’t seem to hold him accountable, the federal agent still felt partly responsible for his friend’s dilemma. It had been the FBI who had initially put Neal in a dangerous situation, which ultimately led him to an even more treacherous place.

     When Peter returned home to Elizabeth that night, she tried to comfort her sad, worried husband. That proved to be an impossible task, and, eventually, she gave him some space to nurse a few beers and stare mindlessly at a baseball game on the television. El knew her husband. Peter was a man of action, and the frustration of not being able to unravel this mystery that revolved around his CI was wearing him down. Perhaps he just needed time to re-group and formulate a new plan after this recent development—or maybe he didn’t, she theorized. Maybe he was now simply ready to walk away because it was out of his hands. Whatever he decided, she would respect it and be supportive. Her heart ached for Peter, just as it did for Neal, who was now alone and out there somewhere away from those whom he loved. She said a little prayer that he would be safe, and that Peter, in time, would be able to accept his absence.

**********

     The next morning Peter knocked on the mansion door at Riverside Drive. A maid let him in just as she had that first morning over three years past. He climbed the stairs to the terrace outside of Neal’s loft, just as he had that same morning long ago. Instead of Neal seated in a silk dressing gown enjoying scones and Italian roast coffee, he found Mozzie and June sharing a newspaper and partaking of their first meal of the day while that annoying little pug begged shamelessly for a handout.

     “Peter,” June welcomed him cordially. “What a surprise! Won’t you sit and have a cup of coffee with Mozzie and me?”

     Peter dropped his head and a small smile teased at his lips. “Really, June, I don’t think my being here should come as a surprise.” However, he did lower himself down into an adjacent chair and poured himself a cup of the alluring brew. Then he turned to Mozzie, whose eyebrows immediately rose into two question marks.

     “Where is he, Mozzie?”

     “I don’t have the vaguest idea what you are asking, Suit!” the little man simpered.

     “Where is Neal, Mozzie! I know you helped him escape yesterday, and you are not doing him any favors by hiding him in one of your safe houses,” Peter tried to sound firm.

     “Neal is not in any domiciles that I may own, Mr. Federal Agent, and I most certainly did not aid and abet any escape! From what knowledge I have from reading the morning newspaper, the NYPD seems to have misplaced their prisoner sometime early yesterday morning, and, as June will tell you, I was with her at that time until well into the afternoon hours.”

     June then chimed in, “Why yes, Peter, that is certainly true. Mozzie arrived quite early. We have our little book club on Mondays, you know, and we usually have breakfast before we begin our discussion.”

     “June, please. Don’t make this any harder for everyone,” Peter pleaded.

     “Are you saying that you doubt my word, Peter?” June’s eyes narrowed and her face became stern.

     Peter blew out a frustrated breath. “Look, I know that both of you care about Neal. However, the longer he is on the run, the longer he is at risk. The NYPD is gunning for him and probably will shoot to kill since he is wanted for a brutal, heinous crime. I just want to keep him safe. I want to protect him.”

     At that point, Mozzie seemed to lose his aloof, detached composure and exploded into a rant.

     “ _Protect him! Keep him safe_! What a hypocrite you are, Suit! Before he ever got involved with you, Neal never had to worry about guns being pointed at him left and right, or being doped out of his mind. During his whole ‘alleged’ criminal career, the worst that he had to worry about was a paper cut from a sketchpad.

     Neal painted pictures, he visited museums, galleries and auction houses, he made withdrawals from some banks, and he wined and dined some hedge fund managers. He conducted his ‘business’ with normal individuals who had more money than they knew what to do with, and he was only too happy to give them a solution. Usually, there were no real hard feelings when he left because their generous insurance policies reimbursed them for their works of art, their jewels or their bonds.

     When he became involved with you and your pals, it was a whole other ball game entirely. As you and your little peanut gallery watched from ringside seats, he was framed by a duplicitous federal agent with an agenda, and stalked by another with a desire to raise his own closure statistics. Museums and banking institutions did not hire bounty hunters to chase after him to islands without extradition treaties. But the Federal Government did, and you couldn’t let him go. You couldn’t leave him in peace. You had to have him back under your thumb, so you actually led his pursuer right to him and put his life in jeopardy. You are a complete control freak, Suit! You passive/aggressively try to keep him off balance. _‘Oh, come for dinner, Neal. Even though you’re just a criminal, El will bake you a cake!’_

     If you want to label Neal a criminal, then get it right. He was a ‘gentleman criminal’ who hated guns and violence of any kind. That was his world until you put him on a leash and wrenched him into an arena of pit vipers with no integrity or finesse. You dangled freedom just out of his reach so he would perform for you. He was your claim to fame, Peter, and don’t try to deny it. You reveled in those sky-high closure rates, and, if you put Neal in danger in the process of attaining them, then so be it. He was expendable. Do not pretend that you care and want to protect him. If anything, Neal needs protection from you and all of your nefarious cohorts in the Federal building! Thanks to you, who only wants _‘to protect him and keep him safe,’_ Neal is facing a lifetime behind bars. With friends like you, he is in no need of enemies!”

     Peter simply stared at the agitated little man in front of him. He had never seen Mozzie this angry. June was patting his hand in an attempt to soothe him.

     “I think that you had better go, Peter,” she said. “We have nothing to tell you, and if you wish to search anywhere in my home, please remember to return with a search warrant.” June’s voice was quiet but firm in contrast to Mozzie’s recent shouting.

     Peter stood up. He looked down at the irate man and said, “Make sure that you don’t leave town for a while, Mozzie. And if you decide that you want to talk, just stop by the house anytime. Elizabeth would love to see you. When you are in a better frame of mind, perhaps we can discuss my shortcomings more civilly.”

**********

     Peter’s mind kept re-hashing Mozzie’s fervent accusations on the way back uptown to his office. Everything that Mozzie had alluded to was accurate. Neal had been the quintessential “Gentleman Criminal.” His reputation was impressive. His conquests, or rather the “marks” from his previous life, were an unusual lot. Without fail, they all spoke fondly of him, usually in superlative terms.

     The ladies were Neal’s forte. He was the “most charming, polite and gracious young man _”_ to the older women, who would have adopted him in a New York minute. They endeavored to spoil and indulge him. To the ladies just over their prime, he was their pipedream of a boy toy—“eye candy” that made their contemporaries green with envy. He gave them doting, respectful attention, and catered to their hungry egos so that they began to believe in their fantasies. To younger women, he was “playful, sexy, attentive and sensitive _.”_ They fell in love within weeks and proudly showed his picture to their Pilates pals.

     The reason that Neal was so successful with the fair sex was not just because he told them what they wanted to hear. There was another reason. Neal just loved women—all shapes and sizes, all ages and temperaments. He did not have to pretend because he meant the things that he told them at the time. He could always ferret out the positive attributes of a mark and play to that strength. Yes, they were beautiful and vivacious and intelligent, and he made them see that in themselves. After all was over and done, he left those women with a sense that they were a bit stronger, more self-assured, and more valuable when he was gone, and they loved him for that. It did not hurt that even though he made off with their baubles, he still sent them yellow roses on their birthdays.

     His dealings with men followed the same recipe. Find out what they wanted most, and dangle that possibility in front of them. Allow them to visualize a life like his with designer suits, polished manners, and standing reservations at the best restaurants. Wow them with his wide-ranging knowledge of art, wine, and epicurean food, and then add in the cosmopolitan élan of a world traveler. Sell an image that they wanted for themselves.

     To the already successful and self-assured, impress them with an innate intelligence regarding finance and industry. Play their game, but be covertly better at it. After his marks lost in that contest, they found themselves with a grudging respect for someone who had matched wits with them and won simply because he was ultimately superior in acuity. _Well played, my friend_!

     Neal’s marks came from the upper echelons of society. He never preyed on those who struggled day to day. He refused to steal from those who could not afford to lose their money. Paradoxically, sometimes those who struggled were the recipients of unexpected largess—always anonymous, but usually after having some kind of interaction with a ‘really nice young man.’ Neal was not Robin Hood. He kept most of what he worked hard to swindle or steal through a con or a heist. However, he did have his moments; Peter would give him that!  

     Then Peter’s mind turned to those “moments” that had elapsed between himself and his CI. If he was truly introspective and honest, Peter would have to admit that he was all about control. He wanted to control Neal to make him better. There was such potential there, and Peter just could not allow it to be wasted on the wrong side of the law. He wanted Neal to change, but repeatedly, the young con artist resisted Peter’s Pygmalion gestures. It was damn frustrating! After all the instances that he had covered for his wayward charge, Peter began to suspect that Neal was changing him instead of the other way around. That made Peter afraid, and caused him to lash out time and time again. He was not proud of his behavior when that happened, but to his surprise, Neal was more apt to be forgiving than Peter.

     Over and over, they would tear their relationship apart, and then have to start at ground level to build it up once again. Neal stayed through it all with that anklet that bound him to Peter. Most times, he had his own agenda going on, but he juggled that with Peter’s White Collar one. He did whatever was asked of him without complaint, and was usually successful in pulling off the impossible—that is, until this last operation. Apparently, Neal’s luck had come to an end, and the guilt that Peter felt was eating him alive. With that hunger for control, Peter swore that he would fix this! To that end, when he got off the elevator on the 21st floor of his building, he gathered his team and gave them their assignments. Pull out everything on the Simmons case and start again. They needed to find something to clear Neal and bring him back into the fold!

    


	6. Chapter 6

     After leaving Newark Airport, Neal made steady progress south on Interstate 95. However, he heeded Mozzie’s advice. He knew that he had to get off this multi-lane highway with its numerous toll plazas, each equipped with the dreaded all-seeing cameras recording each vehicle’s progress. When he reached the northern border of Pennsylvania, he exited onto the much less traveled Route 1. Established in 1926, it was the oldest highway serving the entire East coast, snaking its way from Maine to Florida and encompassing 2,450 miles. His journey slowed considerably, but he felt that it was worth the risk to travel a bit less hurriedly. He doubted that the cops would be looking in this direction. Most likely, they were busy at bus and train depots, and locking down airports. Hopefully, an old Chevy Blazer would not raise any suspicious eyebrows.

     He made only one stop at a tiny, rundown diner for a quick bathroom break and a much-needed large cup of coffee. The little hole-in-the-wall eatery had few customers, and no one looked at him with undue interest. He asked for a sandwich to go and was on his way again. The Blazer had a radio, and he was continuously twisting the dial trying to hear news reports. Mostly all that he heard was static.

     When he crossed into Maryland, the next state on his odyssey, he found another, even smaller alternate path. Route 40, also harkening back to 1926, was an East-West highway that traversed the entire United States. It was even less traveled than US 1, and that was comforting to Neal. By now, five hours had elapsed since his escape.

     For a fleeting minute, his thoughts turned to Peter, who was probably gnashing his teeth and cursing his former partner for being an idiot. Neal sighed, and with introspective clarity, acknowledged certain truths. He saw himself for what he was—a cyclone, mowing down everything and everybody who happened to be in his destructive path. Nobody was spared as he left chaos and heartbreak behind. Kate had suffered the most for what he had come to term her “fatal attraction” to him. Peter had almost lost his job and even went to prison because of him. And Mozzie—faithful, trustworthy Mozzie—who should have been lying on a beach in a Hawaiian shirt with his white whale of a treasure, was risking his own freedom to secure Neal’s. He had to stop hurting the people that he loved and putting them in jeopardy!

     With a new determination, Neal removed the battery from the burner phone in his pocket. While cruising along at 40 mph, Neal ground down the Blazer’s window and tossed it out. After another ten miles down the road, the phone followed. He had to break off all ties to everyone in Neal Caffrey’s life so that they would remain safe. He would make it on his own, just as he had when he left Danny Brooks and St. Louis behind.

     By 6 PM, he was beyond tired. The initial adrenalin-fueled rush had subsided, and a deep-seated fatigue took over. He had never slept for more than a few nightmare-filled hours while at Rikers, and the stress of his days left him coiled with anxiety. Now the tedious landscape of farms and fields was lulling him into a stupor, and he knew he needed to find a safe haven for the night. He had seen frequent little groupings of connected rooms in paved roundabouts along the highway. They were usually euphemistically dubbed “motor inns.” There were never more than a dozen units connected together, and hardly any cars parked in the spaces out front. They resembled unattractive high school wallflowers that the popular boys never asked to dance.

     According to his road maps and the infrequently erected signs, he thought that he was on the outskirts of the small town of Thurmont, in Western Maryland. Eventually, he coasted into one of the “motel” units off to the side of the road, and rented a room for a daily rate of $53.

     “The room actually only costs $50,” the overweight, middle-aged woman with dyed henna hair told him. “That there extra three dollars is 6% tax, ya know, cause the state’s gotta get their pound of flesh. Government’s always gnawing at you, always wanting more, more, more,” she complained.

     Neal idly speculated that perhaps he had discovered a soulmate for Mozzie. After he had paid her in cash, she pointed him in the direction of a nearby cafe, and for the first time in months, Neal found that food sounded appetizing. He only too happily clogged up his arteries with a cheeseburger, fries and a milkshake made from actual ice cream and real milk mixed together by one of those noisy old green blenders.

     Once back in his room, he had turned on the television, but missed the early newscast. He was determined to wait for the 11 o’clock edition, but sleep claimed him before it ever came on. Surprisingly, he slept deeply on the lumpy, sagging mattress of a double bed, with no nightmares or startled awakenings from strange noises. Maybe he was finally at peace with whatever came his way. If he was apprehended, then so be it. If he was killed, he found that he didn’t fear that either. Whatever happened had probably been pre-ordained before he had ever started this little jaunt. It wasn’t that Neal believed in karma, or had a formalized view of religion. He just looked at life as the hand that you were dealt. You did not know the outcome, so you just had to play it.

     The next morning, sunlight filtered into the room around the edges of the closed blinds. Even though Neal had slept until almost 9 AM, he still found a surprising lethargy engulfing him. Maybe he would stay another day before he got back on the road. He decided to chance a little exploration of his surroundings, and actually found the main street of the town of Thurmont, population 6,170, tucked into the nearby Catoctin Mountains. Another diner lunch followed, and he discovered the tiny borough’s bragging rights printed on the paper placemat—“Camp David,” the presidential retreat, was nearby.

     Neal decided to venture a little bit farther afield to get the lay of the land and do reconnaissance. The next town that he came to was Hagerstown. This little enclave was a bit bigger in size than Thurmont and considered their allure to be a huge conglomeration of outlet stores. Each billboard that he passed announced just how much closer that he was to the opportunity of buying name brand merchandise at reduced prices. Neal was not here to shop, so he continued on to the town of Frederick.

     Frederick, Maryland was quite a surprise. Being less than an hour from Washington DC, Baltimore and Gettysburg, it was surrounded by mountain views, wineries and orchards. The upscale downtown area had an eclectic mix of trendy restaurants, martini bars and unique shops. There were also historical museums, as this was once the staging area for numerous battles during the Civil War.

     Neal decided that Mozzie had the right idea. This fugitive wasn’t going to cower in some underground bunker. He was going to hide in plain sight. So, with all the time in the world, Neal actually took a tour of the Civil War Medical Museum, led by an ancient docent with hearing aids and a limp. He rationalized that his police pursuers certainly wouldn’t expect that Neal Caffrey, master art connoisseur, thief and forger, would be perusing this type of gallery. Surprising himself, he was relaxed enough to enjoy the exhibits and all of the historical trivia.

     Late in the afternoon, Neal finally filled the gas tank in the Chevy and picked up a local newspaper. He could not find the barest mention of himself or his escape the day before in New York. Maybe Maryland really didn’t give a damn about what went on in the northern metropolis, and that was a good thing. He headed back towards Thurmont and stopped in the office to tell the same clerk that he wanted to pay for another night. She took his money, then cocked her head.

     “I noticed that your license plates say you’re from Virginia. You got people up here in Maryland?”

     Neal froze. Was this just the natural curiosity of a small town resident, or had his picture been plastered all over the television? Taking a breath, he fell back on what he did best.

     “Yes, ma’am, I am from Virginia—Fairfax, actually. Right now I am just passing through your town on my way to—well, I’m not quite sure yet. You see, I lost my job as a shipping clerk a while back due to the economy and all. I couldn’t find another one, and that put a real strain on my marriage. So, last week my wife filed for divorce, and I had to move out of our place. I just decided that I needed to catch my breath a bit, and maybe see a few new places. So, I’m just traveling with no real destination.”

     The clerk’s face had softened and she looked intrigued. “That kind of sounds like what those folks do down in Australia. They go on ‘walk-abouts’ in the Outback to get their heads together. It’s like a journey to discover who they really are.”

     “Yes ma’am, I suppose you could compare it to something like that,” he agreed. Neal marveled that she was closer to the truth than she ever imagined.

     “Well, I’m Dee, although my given name is Doris. I don’t like the name ‘Doris’ ‘cause it sounds too old-fashioned. So I shortened it to just the letter. You stay as long as you like, ya hear, until you feel like it’s time to move on.”

     “Thank you, Dee, and please, just call me Jack. Did you know that the name ‘ _Doris_ ’ comes from Greek mythology? Doris was the daughter of the god Oceanus and the mother of a sea nymph. People with that name tend to be idealistic, intuitive and spiritual. They always seek the truth and tend to inspire others.”

     A blush made its way up the woman’s neck and she looked down momentarily. When she had once again composed herself, she peered up at Neal and made an offer.

     “Look, I know this place isn’t much, but it’s all I got to my name since my husband passed away. So, since I own it, I can pretty much make the rules. You are the only one who will probably be staying here until hunting season starts in the fall. If you’re willing to keep the grass cut, and sand and paint the little porches and front steps in front of the units, I can let you stay for $100 bucks cash per week.” She raised her shoulders and arched her eyebrows in a question.

     “Dee, you are indeed intuitive,” Neal smiled at her. “You instinctively knew just what I needed. Why don’t we just start with one week and go from there, and I’ll begin the sanding and painting tomorrow.”

**********

     Sanding and painting were mindless activities. You didn’t have to think about what you were doing. It was all muscle memory. Therefore, Neal had plenty of time for contemplation, and could confront the mess that he had made of his life. His path to self-destruction began when he found out the truth of his father’s real sins. His father was a murderer. Was the old adage true—like father, like son? Had some lethal defect been programmed into his DNA that caused him to snap and take a life? He still could not remember, and it haunted him like an albatross around his neck. Peter didn’t believe that he had done it, but Peter always believed what he wanted to believe. He claimed some psychic connection with his gut. Neal could not be sure. He had begun to doubt himself, and this little leave of absence from reality was not shedding any light on the deep recesses of his soul.

**********

     One week turned into two and then three. Neal had found a nearby Goodwill Store and had purchased extra clothes, a small hot plate and a few small pots and pans. Harkening back to his days as Danny Brooks, he shopped frugally at the nearby market for bottled water, bread, peanut butter and instant coffee. He heated cans of beef strew, chili and soup for dinner. Dee allowed him to keep milk, cheese and the occasional slices of cold cuts in a small refrigerator behind the front desk. Once a week, he treated himself to a dinner of fried chicken at the diner.

     When all the work that Dee wanted done was completed, she suggested that he might try to find day work at one of the local farms picking corn and peaches. It was summer, the height of harvesting time. He was hired on with a crew that consisted mostly of migrant Mexicans, and was paid a small wage in cash as well as two dollars for each bushel of produce that he picked. The summer sun was hot and his fair Irish skin freckled and burned, but eventually turned a golden brown. His hair now had sun streaks and curled at his neck. He was beginning to look and feel healthier. He had managed to put on a few pounds, but was still thin as a rail. The Mexicans teased him and called him “ _larguirucha,_ ” which meant “beanpole” in Spanish.

     The migrant workers were friendly and spoke to him in their native language. They told him that after the picking season was over, they usually congregated around the Home Depot stores in nearby towns. The locals knew they could hire the hard-working aliens for the day and pay them in cash. Sometimes they did fall gardening chores like pruning or spreading mulch. If they were skilled at carpentry work or roofing, there were those occasional jobs as well. Neal filed that information away in the back of his mind. Right now, he did not have a plan and was simply living from day to day. However, circumstances eventually forced a decision.

     One morning, a government vehicle made its way up the dusty lane to the main barn on the farm. The Mexicans seemed to have a second-sense about the danger and quickly disbursed. Neal didn’t even ask what was happening because he already had a pretty good idea. These workers were undocumented illegals with no green cards, who took their pay in cash and paid no taxes. The Immigration Service was here to count heads and check papers.

     Neal certainly did not want “Jack Montgomery” placed under scrutiny, so he, like the Mexicans, jumped into his vehicle and hastily sped down the dusty lane back out onto Route 40. The person who hired him knew him only as “Jack,” but in such a small town, it wouldn’t be long before somebody who knew somebody remembered that he was Dee’s boarder. Then the government men would come to investigate why he was living like an Okie from the Dust Bowl Era.

     He packed up his meager belonging and the recently acquired little collection of kitchen accoutrements. The Blazer had been topped off with gas. He stopped in the office and told Dee that it was time for him to move on. He would miss her, he said, and found that he really meant it. She was an oasis in his complicated life. She was simple and down to earth, with no agenda, no malice. She was a good person, and he told her so.

     “Where will you go?” she asked curiously.

     “Not sure yet,” was his truthful answer.

     She smiled at him. “Well, I suppose you’re the only one who knows when it’s time to continue on that walk-about, Jack Montgomery. I hope that you find whatever it is that you’re looking for so hard. And I hope that it brings you peace. Everyone deserves at least that much in this tough world. Remember, young man, you’re talking to somebody who is intuitive and spiritual.”

     Neal smiled back at her and walked out of the office door. The next part of his journey had begun.

  

 

    

 

 

    


	7. Chapter 7

     Leaving Dee and Thurmont behind, Neal and his Blazer stayed on Route 40 until he eventually found himself near Baltimore. He definitely wanted to stay away from large cities, so after some twists and turns, he managed to bypass the downtown area and headed east towards Annapolis, Maryland. It was home to the US Naval Academy, and a fleeting little smile played at the corners of Neal’s mouth when he thought of Jones, a former alumni of the institution, and remembered their night of drinking and comradery. The drive, via Route 50, was beautiful, and he found Annapolis to be a tucked away gem, steeped in history, with narrow cobblestone streets and old 19th century buildings.

     Neal made a stop in his travels and splurged on a seafood lunch at the downtown marina. Then it was back to Route 50 for a drive over the picturesque Chesapeake Bay Bridge, which connected Maryland with its Eastern Shore. The sun was glistening off the blue water, and there were white sails on both sides of him as he traveled the four-mile span. With no place that he had to be, and all of the time in the world, he simply veered off onto another byway and followed it to its end, which happened to be a town called Crisfield, a tiny enclave of 2,700 residents on Tangier Sound.

     For the last few miles, he had tried to ignore some ominous engine sounds coming from under the the Chevy’s hood. No warning lights had appeared on the dash, but that did not mean that something wasn’t wrong. Neal didn’t know the first thing about the mysteries of gasoline-powered machinery, so he kept a lookout for some type of mechanic’s garage. The town was compact, barely three square miles, and it was mostly surrounded by salt marshes. On the outskirts as he drove in, he could see huge seafood packing plants, one after the other.

     Finally, on Main Street, (he wondered idly how many Main Streets there now were in the United States), he spotted an auto repair shop and cautiously coasted in for a diagnosis. About an hour later, he was given the bad news. The Blazer needed some vital parts replaced if he intended to go another ten miles. The repairs were going to be expensive—almost $1700. Even more dire news was that this particular Chevy model was no longer in production, and the parts would have to be ordered specially and could take up to a week to get to the mechanic. Neal still had almost $8,000 left in his stash of funds. Most of his money had been spent thus far on gasoline and food, and he could certainly afford the repair. It wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter. Now he just had to find a place to stay for a week.

     There was not much available to see on Main Street as he walked its length. When he did come upon a small tavern, he stopped in to see if he could get an early dinner and maybe a recommendation of a room where he could stay. The place was completely empty when he entered and ordered a bowl of crab soup, but that quickly changed an hour later when a veritable sea of watermen and crabbers came into the dock on their boats and surged into the tiny little establishment. The tavern’s owner, a gray-haired man with a beer belly, disappeared behind a half wall and started trying to fill orders for some hearty appetites. He would lumber out every once in a while to slap a plate of something fried in front of a customer, or to fill the occasional shout for a beer.

     Neal waited out the dinner rush. Most fishermen left after they had eaten, but a few stayed behind to play a round of pool on the ancient table whose green felt top was ringed with stains from past spills. When the tavern owner again reappeared, he seemed a little surprised to see Neal still sitting on a barstool. While the man wiped down the bar and began soaking the glasses, Neal asked him for a lodging recommendation.

     “Now maybe you haven’t noticed,” the tavern owner said, “but Crisfield is not exactly a tourist town. We don’t have any of those hoity-toity bed and breakfast inns and the like. We don’t even have a motel. I’m sorry to hear about your troubles with your car, but it appears that you may be up a creek without a paddle, young fella.”

     Neal grimaced. “Well, is it possible to rent a car around here? I could go back towards a bigger town and find lodging until my Chevy is repaired.”

     “Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking,” the owner queried. “You have a funny way of talking that sounds out-of-state to my ear.”

     It seemed to Neal’s ear that the people from this area were the ones talking “funny,” or at least a bit differently. Their cadence and pronunciation sounded more southern than what he had heard in Thurmont, but he wouldn’t call it a true drawl.

     “Well, sir, I’m from Virginia originally, but right now I’m doing a bit of traveling around the country,” Neal told him.

     “Why’s that?” was the blunt question.

     Neal decided to go with the story that he had given Dee. “I’m going through a divorce after I lost my job. I am not readily looking for my next job because my ex-wife-to-be will demand alimony. I’m just seeing a bit of the world while trying to keep a low profile.”

     “You got kids?” was the next question in the interrogation.

     “No, sir. I do not,” Neal answered truthfully.

     “Good, ‘cause I can’t abide a man who shirks his responsibilities and abandons his children. Women can fend for themselves. Little ones can’t, and they shouldn’t have to try.” Neal just nodded mutely.

     The tavern owner stared at him for so long that Neal felt like squirming on his stool. This man would have made a good interrogator in the FBI. Perps would spill their guts just to stop those eyes from boring holes into them and to fill the long silence.

     Finally, the older man broke the stillness with an odd question. “Can you cook?”

     Neal had taken a Cordon Bleu cooking course in Paris almost a decade ago, but some things you just don’t forget. “Yes sir, I can cook.”

     “Uh huh,” was the response from the taciturn owner. Neal waited him out.

     “Well, then, I got this spare room upstairs that I use to keep extra supplies for the bar, but it’s got a cot in it and a tiny bathroom, too. If you would help me in the evenings with the dinner rush, I could let you stay there until your car is fixed. It would be like an exchange system, and you could take your meals here as well.”

     So, a deal was struck and Neal became a short-order cook for the owner whose name was Gus. Culinary expertise was unnecessary. All he had to do was learn how to use the massive fryers in the kitchen. Everything was fried from cake cakes to oysters. The occasional burger or steak went on the flattop griddle. His mixology skills were not essential, either. All he had to do was draw beers from the tap. There was not a martini glass or an exotic little drink umbrella in sight.

     The week passed quickly and the necessary parts for the car arrived. The mechanic promised to start on the repair the next day, but Neal told him to take his time. Unexpectedly, the fugitive found himself having fun. The locals were a friendly crowd and easy to please. Once he had squared away the kitchen after the dinner rush, he sometimes joined them for a beer and played a few rounds of pool. He could have easily run the table; he still had those hustler skills from when he was a kid in the Midwest. However, the stakes were usually the next rounds of beer or a five-dollar maximum bet. So, he scratched a few times to make the competition look legit.

     Even though his nights were busy, the daytime hours made for boredom. There really was not much to see or do in the town. He asked Gus if there might be some work that he could do during the day.

     “Well, the watermen can always use an extra set of hands. They go out real early in their boats to set their pots, and then they check their lines in the early afternoon and bring their catch of blue channel crabs into the docks. They separate them by size and bushel them up for the seafood packers to take back to the plants outside of town. It’s hard, backbreaking work, boy, make no mistake about that.”

     “I’m not afraid of hard work,” Neal answered.

     Gus looked Neal up and down, taking in his lean physique.

     “Maybe not, but you’re not exactly built for it. You’re more like a Greyhound rather than a Saint Bernard. You need to eat more potatoes and pie, my young friend. It’ll put more meat on your bones.”

     Neal laughed, but the next day he did approach one of the boat captains down at the pier, and was hired on at the going wage. He used his ex-wife/alimony excuse and asked to be paid in cash. This was not a problem for the captain as it was just that much less paperwork for him to fill out.

     The work was indeed strenuous, and he came home each afternoon with his skin encrusted with a haze of salty dried sweat that he quickly showered off before putting on his chef’s hat. He had no trouble falling into a deep, refreshing sleep at night. There were no nightmares, no jittery anxiety. He had not let his guard down and was still vigilant. However, there were never any strangers around whose presence put him on edge.

**********

     After three months, Jack Montgomery barely resembled the gaunt, nervous young man who had rolled into town with an engine on life support. Slowly his skinny frame had filled out with the help of regular, high calorie-laden meals. The repetitive heavy lifting on the crabbing boats had served to develop muscle mass that now sculpted his chest, and the taut sinews that shaped his arms. He felt healthy and, most surprisingly, he felt content, even if a little lonely and nostalgic.

     He still thought of New York and his life there. Those memories would never fade entirely. He wondered what kind of case was now keeping Peter’s attention. He really missed his handler who had become his friend. They had been through so much in the past years. Their partnership had been a roller coaster ride of constant ups and downs, with times of triumph and cohesion, and times of distrust and angst.

       Nevertheless, through it all, there had always been a connection, even in the worst of times. Maybe Peter had now finally given up on his fugitive, and had taken on the responsibility of a new CI. More than likely, his previous experience with Neal had probably soured him on the idea forever. Who was now sitting at his desk, and Neal idly wondered what had become of his little bust of Socrates? He would probably never know.

     Neal wondered if June was using his loft for storage once more, and had finally given up hope and had taken Byron’s classic suits to the thrift store for real this time. Maybe Mozzie was living in the space that had once been his. No, that wasn’t right. That loft had never been his; he was just a temporary resident due to June’s benevolence. He would never forget her kindness and her compassion. He hoped that Mozzie had done the right thing and accessed some of their ill-gotten funds from those Swiss accounts to repay her for the lawyer’s fees. He hoped that the NYPD and the FBI had not harassed her mercilessly after his escape. He wished that he could hear her carefully modulated, soft voice once more, but he would never take that chance and put her at risk. There could be taps on her phone, even though Neal’s wiser self knew that Mozzie would have checked for that as well as bugs on a daily basis.

     And Mozzie—perhaps Neal missed him most of all. He had been a part of Neal’s life since the age of eighteen and his foray into crime in New York City. His little myopic mentor had always been there for the good, the bad and the ugly. He knew all of Neal’s foibles and secrets, his insecurities and his fears. He missed Mozzie’s off-the-wall quotes and his conspiracy rants. He knew that his friend probably had been perplexed and hurt when he refused to see him at Rikers. But it was the only way to keep the NYPD from knowing of their connection. He had to keep Mozzie off their radar because his vague identity would not stand up to their scrutiny. He had to protect his friend. That is why Neal continued to keep his distance. Maybe he had learned something from Peter after all. You took care of those whom you loved anyway that you could.

**********

     The summer was coming to an end. He had now been a fugitive for almost five months. September was glorious with the humid heat giving way to chilly nights and beautiful sunsets over the water. Soon the leaves would start to turn, displaying vibrant russets and yellows. The crabbing season was slowing down and before long the little tavern would be empty of the fisherman and their raucous company. It was probably time for Neal to move on in this journey of reinventing himself. He packed up the now healthy Chevy Blazer, bid a fond farewell to Gus, and got on his way. He decided to head south again towards Virginia. Maybe he would even visit Fairfax, just to see where his real namesake lived.

     On his way past a large farm, he actually pulled over to gaze at a huge field completely planted with sunflowers that were now in full bloom. It was an utterly breathtaking sea of yellow against a robust blue sky. Curiously, it was not Jack Montgomery who came alive while gazing at this vista, but rather Neal Caffrey, the artist, who was reminded of the famous Vincent Van Gough still life series depicting sunflowers. Neal wondered for a brief second, if, in this quest to find himself, he was actually losing sight of who he really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters will take place in New York. Some time has passed and things are definitely heating up.


	8. Chapter 8

      Just as Neal missed the people from his old life, he was greatly missed in return. June looked around the loft, and, if she closed her eyes, she could imagine him at work at his easel. How easy it had been to love him—a waif that she had found at a thrift shop seemingly a lifetime ago. Sometimes, in her flights of fancy, she imagined that dear Byron, in his omniscient wisdom, had sent this young man to help her through her mourning.

     The room was just as Neal had left it that last day. She instructed her maid to dust twice a week, and she aired it out on mild days when the patio doors could be left open. Of course, the police had been by at first, search warrant in hand, to upend cushions and toss the contents of drawers and cabinets onto the floor. Then, when the FBI got involved, it was more of the same. Naturally, they had found nothing, and it had only caused her to become determined to have her revenge. She chuckled at what that had been.

     One month after Neal’s escape, she took herself to Paris. Undoubtedly, her watchers thought that she was stupid enough to make contact with their wanted fugitive. She astutely picked up her Interpol shadows as soon as her luggage had been claimed at Orly Airport. So, she kept them quite busy for the next seven days. June could only gleefully imagine their utter boredom as they sat through day after day of private haute couture showings at Chanel, Christian Dior and Yves St Laurent. When she dined at the ultra chic and extravagantly expensive “Le Taillevent” on the Champs-Elysees, she pictured them as street urchins with their noses pressed against the glass of an establishment that certainly was not on Interpol’s budget. At the airport, just as she was about to board Air France for her first class seat, she passed her inept covert watchers and bid them a cheery “ _au revoir, mes cheres_.”

     Payback was fun, and a few months later that account needed another deposit. The formidable doyenne took her granddaughter, Cindy, and herself on a ten-day cruise throughout the myriad of islands dotting the Caribbean. How interesting that two young men in wingtips just happened to appear the first night at a nearby table during the same dinner seating as June and Cindy. They also doggedly contracted for the very same shore excursions at each and every port. Idly, the older woman speculated that while she enjoyed the amenities of a suite, complete with concierge and butler service, those poor drones were probably in steerage below water level, sleeping in those claustrophobic little bunk beds. Her impetuous granddaughter claimed that one of them was “sort of cute,” and started to flirt. June sternly told her that if she valued her inheritance that was outlined in her grandmother’s will, she had better cast her net in a different direction!

     Midway in the itinerary, June was inspired to ask her table captain to deliver a bottle of champagne to the gentlemen’s table. “I do believe that lovely young couple over there is celebrating an anniversary,” she happily informed the sommelier. “Isn’t it just wonderful that gay lovers can now make their unions legal?”

     June did not know if she was still being watched now that almost a whole year had passed. Mozzie still methodically checked for phone taps and bugs throughout her home. Sometimes, he stayed for a night or two as he alternated residence in his series of safe houses. He was a comfort to her, and she sincerely wished that she could offer him the same solace. He constantly dwelled on the fact that Neal had refused to see him while incarcerated. He could not understand that, but June could. When Byron had been in prison, he hated for her to see him vulnerable and at less than his best. She abided by his wishes and never brought the children to see him behind a thick layer of Plexiglas. Neal was proud as well, but he also wanted to keep Mozzie off the police radar.

     She tried to get Neal’s loyal little friend to see the wisdom of Neal’s actions, but he would just mournfully shake his head. She had also tried to get him to accompany her to Europe, but he steadfastly declined. He had to stay in New York, he claimed, in case Neal needed him. Unfortunately, the burner phone never rang, and that just added to his agitation and fear. June tried to convince him that no news was good news. If Neal had been apprehended, they would have heard. If he had been hurt, or, God forbid, killed, Peter would have made sure to let them know.

     June’s heart ached for Mozzie, but she would never let him know how much that she was hurting, too. She was no longer a young woman; she knew that there were only a finite number of days in one’s lifetime, and hers were counting down. She just hoped, with all of her heart, that one day, before her time on this earth was through, she could again place her arms around her beautiful boy and know, without doubt, that he was safe and happy.

**********

     Peter was not immune to melancholy and regret. He still felt guilty when he imagined Neal in a life-threatening situation calling futilely for help from backup that never came. Now, months later, Neal Caffrey had become a cold case. Of course, at first, there had been an all-out manhunt for a “malicious and dangerous” criminal who was at large, and who put the whole of Manhattan at risk of being murdered in their beds. The NYPD swallowed their embarrassment and called on the FBI for help. At that point, all of the egresses from the city were locked down within hours of the escape. Facial recognition was employed at airports. Transit authorities meticulously checked IDs at bus and train stations. Eventually, a suspicious van was found parked in a satellite parking area at Newark Airport in New Jersey. It was entirely wiped clean of prints, but authorities speculated that Neal had somehow left on an outbound flight. The question was where had he gone?

     Peter had no doubt that Mozzie was behind the dozens of reported sightings of Neal abroad. He seemed to have popped up everywhere, sometimes simultaneously. There were rumors of his presence in Belgium, Spain, Italy, Greece, and even South America. Then there were the hundreds of tips phoned in on the hotline asking about any reward. The really annoying calls were from those crackpots who claimed that they were Neal Caffrey and who taunted, “ _Catch me if ya can, Fed!_ ” However, there were no transatlantic phone calls to Peter from his friend—no picture post cards from around the globe. There was just nothing!

     Peter expected Mozzie to disappear as well, after the heat had died down. However, that was not the case. Occasionally, the agent would catch glimpses of him in Washington Square Park, only to have the small, bald man scurry away and get lost in the crowd when Peter approached. El tried constantly to cajole him into coming by for dinner. Mozzie would have none of it, even though he and Peter had once forged a truce while Neal had been in prison. Now all bets were off.

     At first, Peter’s superiors had insisted that he assume point on the manhunt for his former CI. However, it did not take very long for them to review the records from the last three years and conclude that there was a definite conflict of interest. They feared that Peter may have become so invested in his CI, it was possible that he may not give his best effort. That suited Peter. He had no desire to hunt a friend, and he solemnly hoped that Neal would just keep his head down and stay safe, wherever he was. The added advantage of being taken off of Neal’s case was that he could concentrate on the still open case involving Simmons.

     Apparently, after the debacle of his wife’s death, Simmons had decided to shut down his human trafficking scheme. He still lived quite lavishly, so, no doubt, he had found a way to access the offshore accounts alluded to by his former wife. He now lived with another woman, and employed a nanny for his two-year-old daughter.

     With some determined digging, and by using well-paid snitches on the street, the FBI had managed to uncover three names associated with Simmons’ former posse. All had to find other avenues of employment once Simmons no longer needed their services. Of course, it didn’t take long for these brutes to run afoul of the law. Their legitimate expertise of earning a living was rather limited.

     Aleksei Koslov was now imprisoned in Fayette Correctional Facility near Pittsburgh for armed robbery and assault. He was doing a ten-year stint. Peter and his team had questioned this hardened felon months earlier about what he knew of Simmons’ sideline and his wife’s death. They may as well have been talking to a wall. They had also approached Boris Abromavich when he was arrested for performing a contract murder in Florida. He told them to take a hike. His lawyer was going to make sure that he walked on the charges. The third man, Demetri Kosygin, was a lost cause. He had been shanked just after his arrival at Attica State Penitentiary.

     On this particular morning, over a year after Neal’s disappearance, Peter took a call from a Federal counterpart in Florida. It seemed that Abromavich’s luck had run out. After a lengthy trial, he was found guilty of “murder for hire,” which carries a penalty of death by lethal injection in that state. He was now on death row awaiting execution at Union Correctional Institution. Florida does not allow inmates to languish for very long while on the taxpayer’s dime. It takes its mandate to execute offenders very seriously—just ask serial killer, Ted Bundy, one of their celebrated alumni who was no more.

     The Florida FBI agent had called to make Peter aware that Abromavich was claiming to have vital information regarding an old case from New York. He boasted that what he had to say would put a nail in his former employer’s coffin, and it would also exonerate an FBI informant who had been arrested for a murder. He would be willing to impart that information in exchange for the death penalty being removed from the table.

     Peter experienced the first spark of hope in over a year. He hurriedly took the first flight that he could book to Florida to meet with the new attorney who was now representing Abromavich. The lawyer assured him that his client had actual knowledge of Jennifer Simmons’ murder as well as her husband’s former business venture of the import of “questionable” commodities. It was the inmate’s last-ditch effort at leverage with his life on the line.

     Peter argued long and hard with the state’s prosecuting attorney in Tallahassee to put a deal in place with the criminal, if he made good on his claim. The DA heard him out, but made no promises. He would send the request up the chain of command in Florida’s capital. Peter remained on tenterhooks for days before a decision was reached at the proper levels. Finally, he got an answer from the powers on high. Abromavich’s date of execution would be delayed until his allegations could be substantiated. If that information was beneficial and provided the necessary impetus to apprehend and punish another murderer, then, and only then, would his sentence be commuted to life without parole.

     The very next day, Peter, along with a Florida FBI representative, the Tallahassee DA and Abromavich’s lawyer made slow progress through all the gates and search checkpoints of the maximum-security prison. The massive, hard-eyed felon eventually shuffled in, securely manacled and chained. When the intimidating Russian sat down, he was told that regardless of whatever story he told, the veracity of the facts would have to be corroborated before it was a done deal. A recording started to play as he began to tell his tale.

     Abromavich reiterated what Peter and his team in New York already knew. Simmons managed to import girls as young as ten from Estonia, Latvia, Moldova, Belarus and sometimes even China. He paid the Russian Mafia in the Soviet Union a pretty penny for their efforts. Now Abromavich began to render information that they had not been privy to during their sting operation.

     After the children had been smuggled into New York on cargo ships, they were then trucked to nearby Bayonne, New Jersey and held in storage sheds. Simmons, himself, would then come out and take individual naked pictures of each girl. There was another crew that looked after the hostages, but Abromavich could not provide any names because he had little interaction with them. When a customer paid the fee for his choice of a sex slave from Simmons’ gallery, one of the associates, meaning either Koslov, Kosygin or Abromavich, himself, would go and collect the child and take them to a rendezvous point. He was well compensated for his trouble.

     However, one particular night, in November of last year, the scenario was very different. His boss had phoned and told him to pick up Koslov and Kosygin, and then his wife, and bring everyone to the downtown office. When Abromavich arrived with his crew and a very pissed off Jennifer Simmons, he found that in addition to Simmons, another man was present.

     “There was some young, dark-haired dude slouched in an office chair who had been having a drink. It looked like he had been dosed with some kinda shit ‘cause he was all loopy and babbling. When the boss said we were movin’ out, Aleksei and I practically had to drag this guy to get him into the car ‘cause he was definitely tripin’ on another planet. The wife turned real pale herself, and then she’s crying and begging Simmons for forgiveness or some such crap.

     Now, hubby ain’t buying her little performance. We pretty much have to sit on her during the car ride to this alley behind an Italian joint in SoHo. We drag everybody out back by the dumpster. We prop ‘zoned-out boy’ up against the wall, and then Simmons pulls out this piece of pipe from the car. His wife is on her knees now, and she's cringing and wailing but it don’t do her no good. Hubby whacks her over the head and she goes down. ‘ _Sir Galahad_ ,’ who can’t even stand up straight at this point, tries to come to her rescue and grabs Simmons’ arm. He gets shoved back against the dumpster, hits his head, and then it’s lights out for him.

     Well, let me tell you, Simmons is like the Terminator. He just keeps on smashing his wife in the head until she’s nothing but pulp. When he calms down, he claims that he had been following her for weeks and knows that she sold him out to the Feds. His plan was to kill the FBI rat, too. But now he’s got a better idea. We wipe down the pipe, put it in the guy’s hand, smear some blood on his other hand and his shirt and roll him over. Simmons thinks that this is even better than he imagined.”

     Abromavich sat back after concluding the horrific story. “Well, do we have a deal,” he asked snidely?

     The DA stared at the criminal with narrowed eyes. “That remains to be seen. All that we have gotten from you is a story. It would be your word against Simmons’. You have a very big incentive to lie to avoid execution, so right now, what we have heard is just an account with no real proof behind it. Will Koslov back you up?”

     “I guess you’d have to ask him. Maybe you can offer him a deal, too?” was said hopefully.

     “Mr. Abromavich,” the Florida DA said after mulling things over, “are you really willing to implicate the Russian Mafia? Don’t you worry about them taking out a hit on you?”

     “Well, right now I’m facing death from you people. I’ll take my chances right here safe behind bars.”

     The DA was again thoughtful. “Mr. Koslov is incarcerated in the state of Pennsylvania for less lethal crimes and is not in danger of being executed. Do you think that he would have any incentive to back you up and risk retribution by the Russian Mafia? I am sure that avenue will be explored, but it sounds iffy to me. I would not hold my breath, if I were you. However, the delay of your execution remains in place until he has been questioned. That’s all I can tell you at this point.”

    

    

    

    

    


	9. Chapter 9

     Even after Abromavich’s revelations, Peter did not let himself hope that there could be light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Not yet, anyway. There was still work that had to be done, and it had to be performed with cunning and finesse. He had learned a lot working beside Neal over the years, and decided to channel his old friend and borrow a page from the conman’s playbook. Peter contacted the warden at the penitentiary in Pittsburgh and made arrangements to have a sit-down with Aleksei Koslov. He took Diana and Jones along with him. Once they were all seated across from the wily, arrogant inmate, Peter baited him.

     “You know, Aleksei, I just came back from Florida a few days ago. While I was visiting the Sunshine State, I had a little chat with your friend, Boris. I’m sure that you may remember him—Boris Abromavich? Well, he certainly remembers you. Actually, he had quite a few things to say about you, and not a lot of it was very nice. Maybe you thought that you were pals at one time, well, no more, my friend.”

     Koslov frowned at Peter and lost just a tad of his air of disdain.

     “What are you babbling about, Fed? Just get to the point ‘cause I got time blocked off this afternoon at the gym and I don’t want to lose my spot.”

   Peter let the inmate stew for a few minutes while he studiously examined his fingernails. He wanted to drag this out a bit and intensify the prisoner’s anxiety. Then the agent lied through his teeth.

     “Well, you see, Aleksei, it’s like this. Your former employer, Mr. Michael Simmons, has remained friends with good old Boris, his faithful employee. In fact, he has put up all the money for his defense. I was surprised when I found out that he left you high and dry when you got into a spot of trouble. You were stuck with a lowly public defender.”

     “Yeah, well a fat lot of good it did Abromavich. The way I hear it, he’s now on death row down there,” the convict sneered.

     “That’s true,” Peter continued, “but Simmons’ crackerjack lawyer has managed to get him an appeal and a stay of execution because he has agreed to turn state’s evidence. He is willing to testify, under oath, who actually killed Jennifer Simmons, your former employer’s wife. In exchange, he will receive complete immunity and a possibility of parole in 20 years.”

     “You guys already know who did that murder. It was one of your own, as I recall.” Koslov now thought that he had the upper hand again.

     Peter grimaced. “That’s not how Boris remembers it. He claims that you and the missus were having a little fling, and when she got tired of you and gave you the cold shoulder, you snapped. You were afraid that she might confess her indiscreet affair to your boss, so you very carefully planned her murder and then framed the FBI informant. Boris says he helped you and Demetri get Jennifer Simmons and the CI to that alley, but he never guessed that you would go off like that. So, congratulations, you truly impressed him with your maniacal temper.

     We had actually heard this little yarn a while back from Demetri ‘whatever his name was,’ but we didn’t put much stock in it at the time. A pity that he got himself shanked in Attica. But, now that we’re hearing this same tale from a completely different source, we re-opened the case.”

     Boris now appeared rattled. “No! No! There was evidence that your crime lab guys found—fingerprints on a pipe, and blood and stuff like that on that Fed. He was going to trial and everything when he escaped. What kind of shit are you peddling?”

     Peter’s little smile was anything but cordial. “Well, maybe you haven’t heard, being stuck in here and all, but forensic science is a wonderful thing, allowing us to have new insights into this situation. After what Boris told us, we re-opened the case and have found new evidence. It would seem that you left a few hairs at the scene, good buddy. Originally, at the time of the murder, we had also found a partial fingerprint on the murder weapon that we discounted since the case appeared to be open and shut. However, your fingerprints are now on file since you have been arrested, and that previously unidentified and ignored print is a definite match to you. I guess that you didn’t wipe off that pipe as well as you thought. That puts a whole new light on things, and we are now looking at this case with fresh eyes. Actually, we’re looking at you, Koslov!” Peter stared hard at the prisoner.

     “You’re trying to blow smoke up my ass, Fed! I don’t believe a word that’s come out of your mouth.”

     Peter looked solemn. “Sorry to hear that, Koslov. I came here to give you a heads up and get your side of the story. I guess I’ve wasted my time. I will leave my card if you have a change of heart and want to try and set the record straight before new charges are filled against you. You know, Pennsylvania has the death penalty just like Florida, and, somehow, I can’t picture Simmons coming to your rescue.”

     With that ominously said, Peter, Diana and Jones rose from their seats and left. They had a long chat with the warden, who promised that Koslov would be denied phone privileges as well as access to the Internet and email for the next few weeks. It didn’t take more than a week for the warden in Pittsburgh to call Peter in New York saying that Koslov wanted another conference with the FBI.

     Again, there was a shuttle to northwestern Pennsylvania where Peter and his team were met by another Federal agent from the area, as well as a district attorney and a public defender assigned to the prisoner. They optimistically carried in a recording device.

     Peter’s wild gamble paid off. Koslov sang like a canary, telling, almost word for word, the same story that they had heard in Florida. He had, most definitely, fingered Michael Simmons for the brutal murder of his wife and corroborated Abromavich’s claim. The New York District Attorney was once more brought into the loop to confer with the Pittsburgh DA, and affidavits were prepared, signed and witnessed in triplicate. The same thing happened in the state of Florida. Charges were then brought against Michael Simmons for the first-degree murder of his wife, Jennifer. Nothing could be proven about his former slave trafficking operation, but Peter was grateful for what he could get on the evil and depraved psychopath.

   Some months later, Simmons was brought to trial and found guilty of first degree murder by a jury of his peers after just a few hours of deliberation. Peter was jubilant. Neal had been cleared, and all charges against him had been dropped in absentia. The White Collar team celebrated at the neighborhood bar, raising their glasses to their former co-worker, wherever he was, and wishing him well. It was Diana who once again broached the subject.

     “Well, Boss, now it’s time for you to do what you do best—find Neal and bring him home.”

     Peter thought for a few minutes before he answered. “Neal has been free and on his own for almost a year and a half now. He has had no anklet restricting him to a two-mile radius, nobody overseeing everything that he is doing and making him accountable, no pressure to perform or be thrown back into prison at the whim of the DOJ. By now, the length of his parole would have been up, and he could have been a free man. But, we let him down time and again, and I am not particularly proud of some of my actions either. I would not put it past the DOJ to want to punish him for escaping and add more time to his original sentence. Perhaps he is better off without our interference. Maybe we should just let him be whoever he has become. I can only hope that he has found some peace and is happy.”

     Diana was quiet for a few minutes. “But Boss, can he really be truly happy while thinking that he may have killed someone? The last time that I saw him, the doubt and the pain in his eyes broke my heart—not that I let him see that! He needs to know the truth. We owe him that.”

     Jones finally got a word in as well. “That’s right, Peter. Neal deserves to know what we have found out. Caffrey has an unresolved issue on his conscience, and we can’t let him go on thinking that he may be some kind of monster. The truth will bring closure for him, if nothing else.”

     Peter was quiet, digesting all that had been said. “I’ll give it some thought and then decide how to proceed from here. I just have to feel that we are doing the right thing for the right reason, and not to assuage our guilt at treating him so cavalierly in the past. You guys are not to blame; this is all on me and the smug, righteous czars above my pay grade who dictate a person’s fate from their lofty pedestals.”

**********

     After a few days, Peter resolved how he wanted to go forward. He petitioned a meeting with the DOJ and its formidable panel that was the ultimate voice regarding felons on work release parole. He had consulted, beforehand, with Richard Whitcomb for advice, and the attorney gladly helped him draft a precise and comprehensive document with meticulous care. There were no loopholes. It was ironclad in its language and quite succinct. Peter’s meeting with the DOJ was brief; he simply provided each of the members present with a copy of the document.

     Days went by. Eventually Jones and Diana were called in to give statements before the board. This time Peter, Elizabeth, and June were left out of the mix. His agents said that the panel heard them out regarding Neal’s character, but gave no indication which way they were leaning. He waited tensely for their determination, and, in the meantime, did nothing on the “Hunt for Caffrey” project.

     Late on a Friday afternoon a few weeks before Christmas, Peter got his answer. Three copies of his intact petition were returned to him, signed, witnessed and notarized. Neal was given credit for his time in jail awaiting his trial for murder as well as for his time on the run. The DOJ now considered his sentence to be complete! He was a free man with his slate wiped clean. There were no strings attached, no caveats, or hoops to jump through for the benefit of the Federal government—Neal was free from this day onward!

     The only problem was, Peter had no idea where to start to look for his former partner. But he had to start somewhere, so he began by making a Sunday afternoon visit to the mansion on Riverside Drive. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since he had last set foot inside the door. June had made it clear that her association with the Burkes was at an end. He was unsure of his welcome today. However, the handsome matron did deign to entertain his presence in her parlor after he was kept waiting for fifteen minutes.

     When June had settled herself in an armchair, her little pug on her lap, she queried politely, “What brings you here, Agent Burke?”

     Peter could well-understand the cold shoulder that he was given, but he soldiered on, nonetheless. As concisely a possible, he explained how Neal’s name had been cleared of all murder charges and that he was now a free man. Peter wanted to find him to tell him that, and he was hoping that June might know where he was.

     June stared at Peter with distant eyes. “My, my, how magnanimous of the FBI to extend this olive branch after turning that boy’s life inside out! He has been used and abused repeatedly, and now your minions are saying _‘mea culpa, let’s let bygones be bygones. Have a nice day!’”_

     “I know I deserve your bitterness, June. I should have been a better friend and done a lot of things differently over the years.” Mozzie’s angry tirade from months ago regarding Peter’s pathetic flaws still reverberated in his mind.

   “I should have worked harder to investigate at the time. I knew that he was innocent, but I just couldn’t prove it,” Peter said softly. “Now I just want him to know the truth, and, if he wants to come home, well, that would be great. I really miss him. If he does not want to come back to New York, I understand, but I would just like to know that he is okay. If you’re in contact with him, will you please let him know that and ask him to call me anytime so that we can talk?”

     “Peter,” June finally spoke again, “I have no idea where Neal is and I never did. He would never have put me in a precarious position like that. So you see, I cannot help you to assuage your conscience. You’ll just have to live with it, I’m afraid.”

     Peter slowly nodded his head. “Well perhaps there is one person whose whereabouts are known to you. When you talk to Mozzie, would you please ask him to contact me, even if he insists on using a burner phone and coded messages?”

     “Of course I will give that every consideration, but I can’t promise anything,” was June’s answer as she rang for her maid to show Peter out.

**********

     It took another week for Mozzie to call Elizabeth. She was so thrilled to hear from him that she was willing to meet him anywhere at anytime. They made a date to meet for a picnic down near Bryant Park on a Saturday afternoon. El arrived with a brimming wicker basket and Peter in tow.

     Mozzie’s face fell and he scolded, “Mrs. Suit, I am appalled and hurt that you would betray me like this. I refuse to break bread with your husband!”

     “Moz,” El began as she laid a calm hand on Mozzie’s forearm, “just hear Peter out, please.”

     “Mozzie,” Peter took up the slack in the conversation, “I know that June has told you about the new developments in Neal’s case.”

     “I admit to nothing, Suit,” Mozzie snarled.

     “Well, I brought you an original copy of the pardon with the raised notary seals and everything. It is one of three that exists. I am entrusting it into your hands hoping that it may ultimately find its way into Neal’s,” Peter said as he passed the papers over to the paranoid little man who was now agitated and scowling.

     Mozzie did some deep breathing to regain his composure and then took twenty minutes to read the document through at least four times. Finally, he looked up with sad eyes.

     “This is all very nice, Suit. You have crossed every ‘T’ and dotted every ‘I.’ However, this comes a bit too late. I have no idea where Neal is; he has never contacted me. I hope that you are happy now, because you and your gang of federal thugs have caused me to lose my best friend in the world.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter rejoins Neal after just five months have passed since his escape from New York. In this flashback, we find him continuing on his odyssey to find the truth within himself. The following chapters will bring us up to date with what he has been doing for the last year. I promise that at the end of the story, the timeframes will all coalesce.

     Neal was on the move again. Leaving the small town of Crisfield and Maryland’s Eastern Shore behind, he impulsively decided that he wanted to see where his namesake, Jack Montgomery, lived in Fairfax, Virginia. He knew that it made no sense for him to do this, and didn’t know why it suddenly seemed so necessary. On his way south, he passed by Washington DC, home of the very duplicitous and manipulative Phillip Kramer. Neal inanely thought about stopping at an office supply store to purchase a pack of those “ _While You Were Out_ ” sticky notes. Then he pictured himself slinking into Kramer’s office and leaving one on his desk with the message “ _So sorry to have missed you, XOXO, Neal Caffrey_.”

     Of course, that would never happen, but it was fun to dream. Neal hoped that he was still off law enforcement’s radar, and he wanted to keep it that way. Having Virginia license plates provided him with a kind of anonymity in a state full of other legitimate residents. After refueling at a convenience store and replenishing his stock of regional maps, he finally found the real Jack Montgomery’s home in an older, quiet suburb, where each house was nestled close to its neighbor on small, grassy lots. This house appeared to be a 70s split-level in good repair. There was a Subaru Forrester in the driveway, as well as a child’s tricycle laying on its side on the lawn.

     Neal parked his Blazer on the other side of the street and stared for just a bit at what was someone else’s life. Jack Montgomery, or at least the real one, probably had a mortgage and a car payment, and went to work each day so that he could provide for a wife and a child. He probably loved and was loved, had hopes and dreams, and felt secure with his place in the world. He knew who he was and had no doubts. He existed and he was real. Neal could not say the same.

     It seemed to Neal that all of his life, somebody else always lived in his body. For the duration of his childhood, he was Danny Brooks, but Danny Brooks was an invention. When he had shed that skin, he had become Neal Caffrey—but that wasn’t accurate either. Neal Caffrey was a fabrication as well, simply because he couldn’t tolerate being Neal Bennett. And now, ladies and gentleman, let us try and decide who Neal Caffrey really is behind all the smoke and mirrors.

     Neal Caffrey was whatever you wanted him to be. He could morph into your desires at the drop of a fedora. Sometimes it was almost a schizophrenic feeling of numerous personas residing within his brain, each vying for who gets to come out and play today. He was a people pleaser because that got him what he wanted. But what did Neal Caffrey want? Did he want to be a Jack Montgomery, comfortably imbedded in his little niche? Did he want to be the flamboyant con artist scamming his way through life? Did he relish being evil? Had a dark, malevolent personality reveled in being a coldblooded murderer?

     Suddenly, a young woman and a small little boy emerged from the house that he was studying. The mother carefully secured her offspring into a child’s car seat before backing carefully out of the driveway. Neal quickly busied himself unfolding maps in case she stopped to ask what he was doing while parked on her street. It wasn’t necessary because she barely glanced in his direction. He watched her taillights quickly disappear into the distance. Jack Montgomery was one lucky man. He had a family and a reason for living. Neal could not say the same. Like an epiphany, he realized how lonely he had become. With a sigh, Neal started his own car and left the neighborhood.

     The city of Fairfax was a sprawling metropolis and provided everything that he would need for the next leg of his journey. The weather was turning more brisk each day, and summer was a memory. He stopped at a Walmart that already had aisles and aisles of Halloween costumes, plastic pumpkins and bags of prepackaged candy bars. He bought a few pairs of jeans, more flannel shirts, a heavy winter jacket along with gloves and new boots. In the crowded parking lot, he spread out his maps fully and made a decision. He would head west and see where that took him. He followed Route 66 until it intersected with Interstate 81 that ran south all the way down to North Carolina. Well, why not? Maybe he could find the real Neal Caffrey in the Tar Heel State.

     He never got as far as North Carolina. While traveling parallel to the Great Smokey Mountains, which were a segment of the iconic Appalachian Mountain range, he ran into bad weather. It seemed that some fast-approaching front, that the newsmen called a “clipper,” was bringing precipitation his way in the form of snow squalls and sleet. Neal wondered just how the solemn oracles, who claimed that global warming was going to be the death knell of the planet, explained the last couple of winters. They had been exceedingly cold and brutal, and this one appeared to be keeping up the trend. He pulled into a Ramada Inn for the night, and was quite surprised to find a keyboard in the room that allowed him free access to the Internet.

     Neal quickly brought up the _New York Times_ and scrolled back to the day of his escape. His mug shot was front and center, with an account of his flight from the back of a squad car on his way to his trial in Manhattan. The article stated that he was possibly armed and dangerous, and citizens were warned not to approach the escapee if he was sighted. The story ran below the fold the next day, chronicling that he was still at large. The day after that, he was relegated to an inside page with a small paragraph that said that the FBI was now aiding in the search. So, Peter had probably been having flashes of déjà vu. _Well, this time, old buddy, you aren’t going to be able to lure me into a trap. While you may think that you know me, you don’t know Jack Montgomery_! By day four, a new political scandal, and another attack in the Mideast pushed him right out of the news. He had been famous, or rather “infamous,” for all of three days. That suited him just fine. Neal erased his search history and settled in for the night.

     The next morning dawned grey and cloudy, but the roads were clear. He got off the interstate highway and opted for less traveled back roads. He made a couple gasoline stops, but otherwise traveled straight through the landscape for nearly six hours. The snow had fallen heavier here, with at least a foot blanketing the fields and woods on the sides of the road. On one stretch of open area, he was suddenly startled by the graceful leaping of a trio of deer across his path, and he spun the wheel instinctively to avoid a collision. The Blazer bounced hard on its old chassis and came to a halt in a snowbank. Try as he might, Neal could not find enough traction to extricate himself from the slush. Well, this was an unexpected setback! However, unpredictable Fate was hesitant to beat him down any more harshly, because she sent help fifteen minutes later in the form of a small truck with a plow mounted on the front of its grill.

     The vehicle was driven by a red-faced, older man who introduced himself simply as “Clive” from the small town of Cedar Bluff that was five miles up ahead. He thoughtfully studied Neal’s predicament and pulled a length of chain from the back of his truck. He then attached it to both of their bumpers and managed to pull the Blazer from the ditch and back onto firmer ground. Neal happily offered to pay him for his trouble, but Clive would not have it. As Neal continued to insist that he take something, the man offered him a solution.

     Clive had been on a specific errand when he spotted Neal. There was an elderly lady in town by the name of Lucille Hawthorn, he explained. She was well into her eighties, lived alone, and still insisted on driving an old Ford Fairlane that had seen better days.

     “It’s a small town and everybody knows her,” Clive said with a chuckle, “so everybody manages to get out of her way when she comes down the street. She’s got bad kidneys and needs dialysis three times a week at the local clinic. Today is her day to go, but she called to tell me that her car wouldn’t start. The problem is most likely the battery in that ancient heap. She keeps it in a detached garage so it gets mighty cold. Anyway, she asked me to take a look at it after I dropped her off at the clinic. Now, I still have lots of farm access roads to plow around here, so you can repay me for my time by maybe taking Miss Lucille to her appointment. I’d be obliged if you could help me out.”

     Neal readily agreed and got the directions to the Hawthorn house. Clive called to let the old lady know that Neal would be coming in his place.

     Cedar Bluff was, indeed, a tiny town. The welcome sign stated that the elevation was 1,962 feet and the population was 1,085. Well, Neal had begun to like small towns in the last several months, and this was certainly small by anyone’s standards! Miss Hawthorn was waiting for him on the wide front porch of her small Victorian house that was quite handsome with wooden fretwork in all the proper places. She carefully made her way down the flagstone walkway as he opened the door of his Chevy and helped her inside.

     “My name is Jack Montgomery, and I understand that you are in need of chauffeur services, Madam. Your wish is my command,” he teased her.

     “Are you being patronizing, young man?” she asked sharply, peering at him from behind her wireframe bifocals.

     “No!” Neal protested. “Of course not.”

     “Well, Jack Montgomery,” the old lady said in a no-nonsense tone of voice once she had gotten settled, “just who and what are you? I suppose that I should know something about you since I am now in your debt.”

     “I’m just somebody who is passing through, Ma’am.”

     “Going where exactly?” she persisted.

     “I don’t know right now. I don’t have a definite destination in mind,” Neal answered truthfully.

     “Seeing the world, are you?” his interrogator remarked. “Maybe you imagine yourself as a John Steinbeck from back in the day,” she snorted.

     “Pardon?” Neal was now at sea with this conversation.

     “John Steinbeck, the Pulitzer Prize winning author, the one who was always writing about the poor and the downtrodden and such. Back in the 1960s, he wrote a book called ‘ _Travels with Charley_.’ It was a sort of travelogue that he wrote when he packed up his poodle, who was named ‘Charley,’ of course, and they set out across America in a camper to see what they could see. However, what the reader did not know was that Charley wasn’t his only companion. Steinbeck had a young son who was dying from a heart ailment, and he took him along so that they could spend those last days together. I think it was noble and touching that they could share that bond before it was too late.”

     “I don’t think that I have read that one,” Neal confessed.

     “Of course you haven’t,” the woman retorted. “Young people don’t read books anymore. Everything is technological today. I was a librarian my whole life right here in Cedar Bluff, and I think books should be respected and cherished.”

     Neal didn’t know how to respond to that, so he kept silent.

   “So where are your people from, Jack?” It seemed like Miss Hawthorn hadn’t had all of her questions answered yet.

     “Originally, I’m from St Louis, Missouri, but now I live in Virginia, near Washington DC,” Neal answered.

     “Married? Kids?” Why was it that older people thought that their advanced age gave them permission to be invasively nosy, Neal wondered?

     “I’ve never been married and have no children,” he answered truthfully.

     “What about your mother and your father?” Would this interrogation never end?

     “I don’t know the whereabouts of either of them.” That was also certainly true. Maybe she would think that he had been abandoned like an orphan and would let it go.

    But instead, she gave him a sidelong glance and murmured, “Family is important. It is hard to define yourself if you do not have one. You need people in your life who care about you so that you can figure out where you fit in.”

     Thankfully, the drive into town was short, and her directions eventually brought them into the parking lot of a low-slung, one-story building with a small sign identifying it as the “Cedar Bluff Renal Clinic.” Neal helped the old woman down and through the door where she was greeted by a dark haired woman in her mid-thirties. She was quite attractive with porcelain skin and wide blue eyes. She quickly helped Miss Hawthorn into a recliner next to a tall, heavy, box-like machine with numerous dials and tubing. There were a handful of other patients already settled in with blood circulating via lines attached to their arms. Finally, she turned to Neal and held out her hand.

     “Hello! I’m Claire Metcalf, and I’m the one and only nephrologist in these parts so I get to share some quality time with some very special people.” Her drawl was charming and her smile was genuine. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and dimples indented the sides of her mouth. To Neal, she looked wholesome and refreshing, without a trace of makeup and her hair pulled back in a thick ponytail.

     “Thanks for bringing Miss Lucille. It is really imperative that she doesn’t miss a treatment. Otherwise, her electrolytes get out of whack and that puts a strain on her heart.”

     “I was happy to do it,” Neal answered with his own captivating smile. “I can wait for her or come back when she’s finished.”

     “Oh, I don’t think that you’ll want to wait,” she warned him. “The length of each treatment is four hours. Why don’t you get on with whatever business that you have? I’m sure that I can get Clive to fetch her later.”

     Neal just continued to smile. “Well, you see, that’s just it. I have no pressing business right now, other than finding a place to crash for the next day or two. Would you be able to point me in the right direction?” This woman intrigued him. He hadn’t noted a wedding band, and he definitely wanted to see her again. This little town had suddenly become much more interesting.


	11. Chapter 11

     Dr. Metcalf—“Claire”—definitely wanted to be helpful to the newcomer, and suggested that Neal stop at Bessie Cornish’s little home on the one and only street of the town.

     “She’s a widow with a spare bedroom that she might consider renting out for the night. You can’t miss her house. The whole downtown is only 2.3 square miles, and her cottage sits right next to the drug store.”

     Miss Bessie was more than happy to let her room for $15 a night. She even promised to throw in breakfast. Neal realized that he was in the heart of Appalachia where money took on a different value. He would later learn that the median family income for the town was barely above $26,000, and that roughly 15% of the residents fell below the poverty level.

     Four hours later, he picked up Miss Hawthorn from the clinic and drove her home after receiving a warm smile and wave from Dr. Claire. Clive had been by and left a note tucked inside the screen door. He informed the elderly lady that her 30-year old Ford had gone belly up and needed a decent burial. There was nothing that he could do to resurrect the old engine. Miss Hawthorn’s response was a lusty curse that Neal would never have expected to hear from her genteel lips.

     That night, more snow fell, accumulating another eight inches atop what had fallen earlier in the week. Neal dutifully shoveled Miss Bessie’s small sidewalk and cleaned off his Blazer. He asked if he could borrow the snow shovel and made his way outside of the downtown area to the old Victorian where he laboriously cleared the driveway and the walk. Miss Hawthorn made him leave his boots on the porch and come in for a cup of tea.

     Apparently, today was the day for her to talk about herself, since Neal had proven to be a boring topic yesterday. She told Neal that her family had lived in this town for three generations. Many years ago, her grandfather had owned property that was found to have seams of coal beneath its surface by the big mining companies. They had descended in mass upon Appalachia with their surveyors and geologists early in the 20th century. Her ancestor had sold his land for a handsome profit and built this very house. Her father had worked for the coal companies, but above ground, because strip mining had become the new technology. He insisted that his daughter get an education, and she had gone to Lynchburg College and obtained a degree in English. Her mother became ill shortly after she had graduated, so Lucille returned home to care for her until she passed away. Her father seemed adrift, so she stayed with him and never left. She remained unmarried, and eventually buried her father after years of dementia. The local library had become her bailiwick until she finally ceded control to a much younger woman ten years ago.

     “Right now, I’m just waiting on the Grim Reaper,” she said with some pluck. “I’ve done my time and I’ve earned a rest!”

     “You seem pretty spunky and independent to me,” Neal remarked with a laugh. “I wouldn’t be counting down the days just yet.”

     “Young man, I am tied to a machine three days a week for a total of twelve hours. The machines do what these old kidneys cannot, and it annoys me to no end that my body is letting me down. Old age is a curse!”

     “From what I hear, it’s not for sissies, either,” Neal teased until he made her snort. “I promise to be by tomorrow to pick you up for your treatment.”

     “I can read between the lines, Jack Montgomery! You just want to see Claire Metcalf again,” she shrewdly guessed.

     “I am not going to confess to an ulterior motive. Maybe it’s your company that I crave,” he said as he waggled his eyebrows at her.

     “Well, I’m certainly not going to worry about my virtue at this late date,” she harrumphed.

**********

     So, Neal settled into this tiny isolated hamlet, arriving three times a week at the Victorian house to ferry Miss Lucille to and from her treatments. Eventually, he swapped his room in town for one in Lucille’s home. He couldn’t complain about the rent—it was free—sort of a barter system for his services. Lucille did not want a debt to go unpaid. The winter had descended with a ferocity, and Neal burrowed in just like the rest of the residents until the spring thaw. He had found employment in a nearby Virginia county at a coalmine office doing their accounting. He insisted that he be paid under the table, and, after some haggling, that was agreed. The wage was small, but then so were his expenditures. He still had a nest egg of $4000 socked away. The manager at the mine also promised to tailor his hours around Miss Hawthorn’s treatments. And the most important development was that he was seeing Claire Metcalf socially.

     Claire was a beautiful soul, uncomplicated, caring and honest to a fault. She seemed incapable of artifice, did not flirt, and was earnest and forthright when she talked. Her patients adored her and Neal was captivated. She loved the people in the town, and over coffee, she explained a little about the region.

     “Most people look down their noses at what they consider a bunch of illiterate hillbillies, but the generations of people who have made their home here can trace back their lineage for centuries. An estimated 90% of Appalachia’s earliest European settlers originated from Anglo-Scottish border countries. They may live in poverty, but they are proud, independent, not afraid of hard work, and are determined to take care of themselves and each other. Conservative religious beliefs, strong family values and family ties remain the most important things to them. You will never hear of an elderly person being stuck in a nursing home. They respect the aged and put up with their quirks because they are looked upon as having the wisdom and experience that comes from a lifetime.”

     “Are you from the area?” Neal asked.

     For the first time, Claire hesitated before answering a direct question. “Actually, I’m not from here originally. I sort of migrated to Cedar Bluff five years ago. I found that it suited what I needed at the time. Perhaps coming here saved my life, or, at the very least, my sanity. I needed the stability of sameness without complications.”

     “So, at one time, you were a vagabond like me,” Neal teased.

     “I would say, at the time, I was running away from something, maybe myself. I needed to discover who I really was and make peace with it.” Claire was quite sincere as she stared at him with deep blue eyes.

     Suddenly, Neal felt uncomfortable. It was as if this woman was staring into his soul.

**********

     Christmas was approaching and Neal asked Lucille if she wanted to put up a tree.

     “Haven’t had one in years,” she said. “Just haven’t felt the need or the inclination for all that fuss. We used to put one up when I was a child, but it seemed like I did not remain a child for very long. Times were hard. Christmas and the gift-giving all seemed frivolous at the time.”

     The next day, Neal brought home a small three foot spruce that he found growing tenaciously on the side of a mountain. Lucille grumbled that she had gotten rid of any ornaments years ago. So, Neal cut some holly sprigs with red berries attached from the outside bushes, made small origami doves from paper, and fashioned tiny stars from tin foil. He festooned their little “Charlie Brown” tree with a flourish. It was almost a replica of the sad little trees that were part of his childhood with a seriously depressed mother in a small, cluttered apartment. He presented Lucille with a pencil sketch of her venerable Victorian home in a simple frame on Christmas Eve. The small, bird-like woman gave him a hug and her eyes were moist. Embarrassed, she bustled to the kitchen to get him some coffee.

     The months passed into the spring, and Neal marveled that he had stayed in one place for so long. Visions of the New York skyline became softer in his memory, and he wondered if Neal Caffrey was fading, too. Perhaps he was regressing back to Danny Brooks, with a simple, no-frills existence. Although people here knew him as Jack Montgomery, Neal was not sure who he had become. Maybe he was creating a completely different person, like shaping clay into a new life form.

     Eventually, he and Claire became lovers. Their couplings were usually gentle and sweet rather than frantic with driving lust. They nurtured each other and found comfort in each other’s arms. There was no exquisite longing like there had been with Kate a lifetime ago. Perhaps that kind of passion was only for the very young. And Claire was not Sara with her sharp edges and acerbic wit. This thing between them was just a union of two people who liked and respected each other, and found joy in their lovemaking. Neither of them had any unrealistic expectations or knew if they would last.

     One late night as they lay entwined on Claire’s bed, she gave him a soft, wistful smile and asked, “How will you know, Jack?”

     “What are you asking?” Neal probed cautiously.

     “How will you know when it is time to go?” she clarified. “I know that you are searching for something, and I don’t think that you have found it yet. This is not your ‘forever’ place, but rather a waystation for you. But then maybe I am reading this all wrong. Perhaps you are really trying to put something behind you. Are you running toward something, Jack, or away from something?”

     When Neal’s face hardened slightly, she smiled and touched his cheek with a delicate hand.

     “It’s okay if you are running away. We all run away at some time when we can’t face our past.”

     Neal finally asked softly, “What could you have ever done that was so terrible that you couldn’t face it?”

     “Have you ever killed someone, Jack?” Claire stunned him with her response.

     Neal managed to steel his features as he said truthfully, “Not that I can recall.”

     “Well, I have,” she admitted suddenly.

     Neal just stared at her. He would not ask. It was her story to tell if that was her wish. Apparently, she trusted him enough to share her tale.

     “I grew up in Richmond and went to college and medical school in the Deep South. It was something that I had wanted to do since I was a child. I interned and took a residency in a hospital there, with internal medicine as my chosen area. However, like so many of us in the field, we all wanted to be hotshots and go where the action was. Therefore, I began working in the emergency room of a large suburban hospital and started a residency in trauma medicine. I felt smug and invincible because I knew it all.

     One evening, an 18 year-old college kid presented in the ER with one-sided facial paralysis. There had been a history of Lyme’s Disease from a tick bite, and inflammation and paralysis of the facial nerve is sometimes one of the temporary complications. I prescribed a course of antibiotics and steroids and sent the boy back to his dorm. He later died from a cerebral bleed—a stroke. Young people just do not die from strokes, but an autopsy showed a congenital anomaly in one of the arteries in his brain and he had slowly bled out.

     I should not have gone with a simple explanation. I should have looked for a zebra when I heard hoof beats instead of just assuming it was a herd of horses. I should have ordered an MRI of that boy’s brain to rule out a bleed. I had messed up, and a life with promise was cut tragically short.

     It almost broke me. I left medicine completely for a while. I actually worked as a cashier in a Target store for almost a year. My parents were supportive but perplexed. Finally, they told me that I needed to get it together and get on with my life. We cannot always figure out why things happen to us—they just do, and we have to deal with them. We have to face down our fears and live rather than just exist.

     So, I went back to medicine and changed my specialty to nephrology. Patients on dialysis may not live as long as their contemporaries with two good kidneys, but with proper treatment they can still enjoy the years that they have. It was hard to find a position in Richmond, so I sent my resumes out far and wide. Seeing Cedar Bluff for the first time felt safe. It’s been five years now, and I’ve come to feel like it’s home for me. I actually found ‘me’ here.

     So, dear Jack, I know when I am looking at the ‘walking wounded’ because I have been one of the casualties. I sincerely hope that you can find what you are looking for so that you gain the strength to face the troubles of your past.”

     Neal kissed this very wise woman softly and pulled her to him. He felt her heartbeat against his chest and it was comforting and steady. She was right. He hadn’t been searching. He had been hiding, and not just from the law, but from himself.

    

 

    

 


	12. Chapter 12

     The weeks rolled by with Neal still entrenched in Cedar Bluff. “Jack” had been accepted into the tight little cadre of the town. He was one of them now, and they acknowledged his presence gracefully, giving him a “ _Hey_ ” whenever he passed a resident on the street.

     The Appalachian summer was beautiful. Wildflowers bloomed in little tucked away meadows, and the majestic mountains were dressed in leafy greenery. Using money orders, Neal had purchased canvases, brushes and paints by mail. He had started to enjoy his passion once again. It was a good feeling for him, like putting on an old pair of broken-in shoes that molded to you in a comfortable fit. He spent a great deal of time on an oil depiction of the old Victorian house, flanked by long-established purple rhododendrons, and wide, gnarled elms standing like sentries in the yard. Lucille, peering through her bifocals, watched with intense scrutiny as the brushwork progressed. When it was completed and framed, she insisted that it be hung over the fireplace mantle.

     Most evenings, Neal continued to sketch while alone in his room. At first, there were numerous pages of landscapes and timeworn buildings located around the small town. Then various residents evolved, like the barber who cut his hair, and the old pharmacist in the little apothecary shop. Of course, he spent the most effort on the portraits of Claire and Lucille.

     After a while, like rote memory, his subconscious took him in a different direction. Some nights, he found his pencil delineating a more familiar urban setting. The Art Deco lines of the Empire State Building took shape, as did the French Renaissance marble mansion on Riverside Drive. Then, with a will of their own, his chalks and charcoal sticks began to shade in the hair and shadows of faces—Mozzie, June and, of course, Peter. They lived on the page because they resided in his heart as well. He finally admitted to himself that he missed them beyond measure.

**********

     The planet continued its natural progression around the sun. The season changed, and soon it was fall once more. Neal marveled that a year had elapsed since Clive had pulled him from a snow-filled ditch, and, on a whim, the fugitive had tucked himself into his Appalachian hideaway. He and Claire planned to celebrate Thanksgiving with Lucille at her house. Of course, there would be a turkey with all the trimmings. However, it was not meant to be. He remembered that old adage: _“Man plans and God laughs.”_     

     Lucille contracted a cold virus early in November that grabbed hold with a vengeance and refused to let go. Her nights were a progression of paroxysmal coughing spells that left her gasping and wheezing. As the days went on, her condition steadily worsened until the delicate woman developed pneumonia that required hospital admission in a nearby county. Her dialysis continued while she was an inpatient, with the cumbersome machines being wheeled to her bedside for the treatments. However, it was obvious that she was becoming more and more frail.

     Neal was her constant nightly visitor, and it broke his heart when she asked him to convince the doctor to arrange for her discharge. Neal argued that she was not strong enough to go to the clinic for dialysis in Cedar Bluff.

     “It’s time for me to go home,” she firmly insisted. “I want to die in my own bed. Please do this for me.”

     A saddened Neal discussed Lucille’s request with Claire.

     “We have to respect her wishes, Jack,” Claire said gently. “She is ready to go and has made her peace. It’s unlikely that she is going to beat the lung infection, and things are just going to continue to go downhill. We should afford her the dignity of leaving us on her own terms.”

     With a heavy heart, Neal finally took Lucille home and carefully carried her up the steps of the house where she had lived her whole life. He stayed by her bedside almost constantly. Sometimes he read to her, and sometimes they just talked, or rather, she talked to him. They were mostly stories from her past.

     She told him about when she was a young girl and had left the small town for the first time.

     “When I walked onto the Lynchburg College campus, I felt like I was walking onto the ‘Tara’ plantation from ‘Gone with the Wind’. That’s how magnificent those buildings looked to a wide-eyed, naive eighteen-year-old who had never been away from home.”

     Then she talked of her mother’s death, and how her passing had devastated her father.

     “He found it so hard to go on without her. It was as if he had lost a part of himself. When the Alzheimers started, he would look at me and think that she had come back to him. He would call me by her name, and, sometimes, when things got really bad, I’d feel like screaming, ‘ _See me, Papa; see **me.**_ ’”

     Then she reminisced about others who had passed through her years of living. She had survived so many, and it saddened her that those friends and relatives were all gone. They left behind faded old sepia images in her mind that, over time, had become a part of her.

     Having exhausted herself, Lucille closed her eyes in sleep. Neal listened to her shallow breathing and the creaks of the old house around him. He mulled over her recollections and thought about how they paralleled his own life. He, too, had been awed and overwhelmed when, at eighteen, he had traded the conventional Midwest for a frenetic, unfamiliar land of intimidating skyscrapers and people.

     He could also relate to Lucille’s angst when her father desperately pined for his dead wife. Neal’s mother had existed in her own private little world of depression after her husband was gone. She was so focused inward that she failed to see her own child, who so very much wanted and needed her attention. Maybe that is the reason that Neal’s past crimes were so audacious. He wanted someone to notice him, to “see” him, even if that someone was an FBI agent with an obsession.

     Neal then thought of Peter and Mozzie and June and so many others. They comprised the ever changing kaleidoscope of those old photos in his mind. Just as Lucille had said, their faces were etched into his heart. Time may fade them, but they would never be lost forever.

     After awhile, Lucille awakened again. Her eyes were clear, earnest, and penetrating, and Neal gave her his full attention when she began to speak in a soft voice.

     “There’s an old saying that ‘people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. It is up to us to figure it out.’    

     I have had a lot of time to ponder this, and perhaps I have now figured it out. I believe that you have appeared in my life for a reason, my young friend. You came to provide a crotchety old lady with a bit of joy at the end of a very lonely and sad existence. My reason for coming into your life was to offer you a port in the storm until you could sort yourself out. I believe that is why you have stopped here for a time. But I suspect that there may be others who have earned the distinction of claiming other seasons, and perhaps, that lifetime.”

     Then she smiled wistfully. “We do not exist in a void, Jack; it is never just about us. We usually do not realize how our being affects others. Each of us is like that metaphorical tiny pebble that is tossed into a still pond. Ever-expanding concentric ripples emanate from us and sweep over others. The results may be subtle or they may be overt, but your life is always somehow intertwined with others. Forgive an old woman for resorting to that tired old cliché, but I think that it applies here.”

     When he mutely returned her stare, she continued.

     “You are a truly good person, Jack, even though you may have had doubts. I think deep down in your heart, you know who you really are; you have just forgotten for a bit. I have a feeling that there are people somewhere out there, far beyond little Cedar Bluff, who value and miss you. They are the ones in that pond feeling the ripples. Our lives have only so many moments. Have the courage to face them head-on and live them before it is too late. Don’t wait, and then have to look back with regret at the ‘what ifs.’”

**********

     The next day, Lucille, with quiet and unassuming poise, slipped into an unresponsive state. Neal and Claire were at her bedside twelve hours later when she took her last breath. As was the custom of the area, she lay in a simple pine coffin in the parlor of her home during the wake. The entire town came to pay their respects and reminisce about their long acquaintance with her. Neal finally found out that she had been 91 years old when she passed away. She was buried on a windy, cold day beside her parents in the local church cemetery.

     One of the last to drift away after the simple service was her lawyer, George Walters, who looked to be a chronological contemporary of Lucille’s. He asked Neal to stop by his office whenever it was convenient. That meeting was brief. Lucille’s will was on file, and since she had no living relatives, there were instructions that her house be sold, and the proceeds used to endow the town’s library. Mr. Walters told Neal that he was welcome to stay there until it was sold, and to take anything that he wanted. He then handed Neal a large packet in a white envelope. “Jack Montgomery” was written on the front in Lucille’s flowing script. The back flap was secured with old-fashioned red sealing wax, an ornate “H” having been indented in the center.

     “Lucille gave this to me a few months ago. She said she wanted you to have it if you were still around when she passed. I have no idea what is inside. She gave it to me already sealed. If it is anything of a legal nature, I would certainly be happy to advise you,” the lawyer explained to Neal.

     After that, the two men shook hands, and Neal went home to an empty house that now seemed sad, as if it knew that its lifetime occupant would no longer return, and she was already sorely missed. It took several days before Neal felt ready to open the packet. He smiled when the first thing that fell out was a well-worn copy of John Steinbeck’s “ _Travels With Charley_.” Lucille had written a personal message on the inside page.

     _“Remember what I once told you about this story, Jack. It is not a simple travelogue. It is really about ties with loved ones, and renewing that connection while there is still time.”_

     The remaining contents of the envelope were truly astounding. Apparently, Lucille’s grandfather had been the owner of a multitude of bearer bonds issued by some of the biggest coalmining companies in the southwestern part of the state. When Neal did the math, their value today was over $900,000!

**********

     Neal and Claire indulged in a somewhat belated Thanksgiving dinner the second week of December. They were both rather subdued, regretting that this was not the celebration that had been planned weeks before with cheerful anticipation. After the dishes were washed and put away, Neal took Claire into his arms and led her to the bedroom. Their lovemaking was sweet, slow and wistful. They both could sense that this was the last time. Afterwards, Claire laid her head on Neal’s chest so that she was comforted by the soft, steady cadence of his heart.

     Without looking up, she whispered, “It’s time, isn’t it?”

     Neal did not answer right away; he just held her a bit tighter in his arms.

     It was Claire who finally broke the lengthening silence.

     “Did you know that in my mind you were never ‘Jack’? To me you were always ‘Odysseus,’ the brave Greek who fought in the Trojan War. After that conflict was over, his tragic figure went on a quest to find his way back home to Ithaca, and to those whom he loved. His journey took years, and he made many stops along the way. He sometimes became lost, and he often wondered if he was on the right path. However, after resting for a while, he always took up the journey again. His travels were sometimes perilous and fraught with dangers, and many times, he was detained. He fought monsters and fiends, was tricked by illusions and the lure of a siren’s call. Sometimes, he suspected that the demons were within himself. Nevertheless, in the end, he overcame everything. He made it home. You are a good man, Jack—my ‘Odysseus’—on your way back home. I will miss you more than you could ever know.”

**********

     Early the next morning, Neal loaded up the Blazer with his duffle bag and a cardboard box. Besides the Steinbeck novel, the box contained the sketches of his life in this small town, the places and the faces that he did not want to forget. The only other thing that he took was the oil painting of Lucille’s house, which had been his haven, or, as the perceptive lady had put it, his “port in the storm.” He parked out front of the dialysis clinic before sunrise. He had put the stack of bearer bonds into a folder, which he then sealed into a manila envelope addressed to Dr. Claire Metcalf. He slid it through the mail slot in the door. Neal knew that, most likely, she would find a way to modernize the clinic, and initiate other projects to benefit her beloved, adopted town.

     As the Blazer began retracing the route from over eighteen months ago, it was not Jack Montgomery at the wheel. It was not Neal Bennett or Danny Brooks either. The man driving north was now a complete entity, no longer fragmented by insecurity and doubt. What seemed like a lifetime ago, he had hit rock bottom, and now he had finally managed to climb out of the abyss. Trying to regain lost memories from a tragic, long ago night no longer seemed so important. He had ultimately accepted in his heart that he had not been born bad, nor carried the sin of Cain on his soul. He was a man who had made peace with himself, and his journey was finally coming to an end.

Neal Caffrey was going home!

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for the much-appreciated kudos – love ‘em. And I have enjoyed your comments as well. Having people read and be interested in your work is a great incentive to write!


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